Sojourns
by Leesainthesky
Summary: A new Erik DuPuis adventure where he visits new worlds and finds a bit of trouble along the way. Rated M for a reason.
1. Ch1 American Girl

This is a continuation of life with Erik and Gabrielle DuPuis from _Time the Avenger_. Count on hot Erik and Gabrielle action in future chapters.

-Leesainthesky

**Sojourns 1  
**  
Gabrielle DuPuis felt like skipping. Since arriving in the States three weeks ago, she'd been struggling to keep a step ahead of the melancholy cloud that seemed attached to her like a balloon on a short string. The last time she'd been in New York City, it was 2005 and she was an entertainment reporter for a television Magazine show.

The year was now 1881. Gabrielle realized the city would look different from her previous visit. What she wasn't prepared for was the torrential anamnesis of her future-past.

But today things were looking up. She'd been commissioned to write an article for the new publication "The City Woman's Journal" concerning New York's growing prostitution problem. Gabrielle intended to expose how a good deal of unwed mothers often found themselves without a healthy support system, leaving them to the mercy of the debaucher's pleasure for survival. These unfortunate women needed compassion, shelter and hope, not reprimands and damnation.

Gordon Brasher, editor of the periodical, was thrilled to have the reputable French-American writer at his disposal and Gabrielle was trilled to have the American editor's ear. She only wished Mayor William Grace saw the need for helping these ladies and their children. Philanthropic though he was the mayor was also very protective of the monies he received from his good upstanding churchgoing constituents. Adding the plight of a few whores to his list of righteous causes would not be a prudent political move.

The two-week curtain of rain clouds finally parted and Gabrielle sniffed at the fresh air. She smiled, thinking of how nice it would be to take in a "before supper" stroll with Erik and their three-year-old son. Her happy thoughts, along with her body, took a sudden downward tumble. The toe of her boot had caught on a rough jag of sidewalk, sending her to her knees in the middle of a mud-strewn Fifth Avenue.

For once, Gabrielle was thankful she wore a petticoat. The bulk of the long skirt and the undergarment helped cushion her fall. However, the reticule she'd been clutching skittered across the cobblestones coming to rest at the foot of a seriously attired gentleman, its contents spilling out for all to see.

"Merde," she hissed.

"Patrolman Crump, do help the unfortunate lady to her feet if you would," instructed Superintendent Daily to the uniformed officer flanking him. Gabrielle was already back on her feet and scrambling to collect her runaway belongings when the obedient lawmen approached her and offered his hand.

"Thank you so much, gentlemen, but I'm good—really," she said, smiling and brushing off any real or imagined street grime from her cotton print dress—it was then that Gabrielle saw the Police Superintendent reach down and retrieve one of her fugitive personal items from the street.

"Do my eyes deceive me? Madame, it seems your bag has released into the streets of our fair city an item which we do heavily frown upon," said the Superintendent, his jowly face dropping in disapproval.

Embarrassed yet still clueless as to the meaning of the man's bluster, Gabrielle knitted her brows and tilted her head sideways at him. "Forgive me, sir, but I'm not sure I understand."

The Superintendent held up his find and waggled it at her. Lifting his chins in self-righteous indignation he then addressed the officer without taking his eyes from Gabrielle. "Do not dare play innocent with me, young woman. From the looks of things, you are far from it."

"Patrolman Crump, arrest this woman."

"Do _what_?" The normally articulate Madame Thomassen-DuPuis sputtered and wriggled away from patrolman Crump's attempt to restrain her. "Get your hands off of me!" she cried flinging her arm from his grasp.

"Madame, it would behoove you to cooperate with the law," bellowed the superintendent.

"I've done nothing wrong, you've no right to arrest me," Gabrielle yelled loud enough for most of Fifth Avenue to hear. She hoped someone might witness this blatant injustice and come to her aid. Instead, the good people of New York wanted no part of an unruly, disobedient woman. They merely crossed the street and gawked at the scene from a distance.

Superintendent Daily had had enough. "Crump, handcuff this insolent woman _now_," he demanded.

When the patrolman slipped the handcuffs around Gabrielle's wrists he brushed up against her breast. Whether by accident or design the unwarned contact inflamed her temper. She jabbed out a boot clad foot and struck him in the shin. Crump repaid her rebellion by jerking the cuffs tighter than was necessary.

"When my husband finds out about your gross maltreatment of me you'll both be more than sorry!" Gabrielle promised the lawmen.

"I wonder, dear woman, what your husband will say when he finds that you've been arrested and thrown into the New York City jail?" countered Daily with a vindictive snort.

"Take her away, Crump."

-()-

_**And now dear readers, a review if you would, please.**_

FYI:  
Gabrielle's father is a physicist who studies time travel. She was a journalist who ended up in France, 1876, where she met and married Erik. Do not let the time travel part of it deter you from reading, it's not cheesy Sci-Fi. Read _Time_ _the Avenger _if you'd like to know the history._  
_  
Details:  
_Notes: Mayor William Grace was Mayor of New York City in the early 1880's.  
The City Woman is a fictitious, progressive magazine.  
In 1880, suspects were often handcuffed with their hands in front of them._


	2. Ch2 Celebrity

**_Welcome former DuPuis fans and you new ones as well. Thank you for the reviews. Let's see what Erik's about today…_**

_**-Leesainthesky**_

**Sojourns2**

Erik DuPuis paused from his reading long enough to notice the sunlight filtering in from his study window. The dappled beams settled over various items on his desk before dancing across the right side of his face in a warm, pleasant ribbon of light. He smiled at his positive reaction to the sun's intrusion. While appearing in public sans masque might take a lifetime of getting used to, the disfigured artist was at least growing accustomed to baring his entire face to the sun's warmth

America—the promise land. Gabrielle said they should visit someday and someday had come sooner than he'd expected. Hungry for the arts, New York society, the Madison's, Vanderbilt's and the like, demanded more cultured entertainment in their burgeoning metropolis. Wagner, though sublime, could not meet everyone's distinctive tastes and they'd not yet warmed to American opera. Vaudeville's banality bored them.

Word of the composer Erik DuPuis' avant-garde romantic operas had reached the colonies. Audiences, while adoring Mozart or Haydn, would appreciate one from a revered _living_ European composer.

Erik DuPuis was known as a maverick, a fact that delighted Mr. Appleton, director of New York city's new Mosaic Theatre. And because he'd promised his American wife a trip to her native country, the reclusive composer accepted Mr. Appleton's invitation to oversee a production of his popular opera "La Femme du Nord", at the Mosaic."

Besides, Erik enjoyed the adventure of travel. He enjoyed it almost as much as he enjoyed the perks that came along with pleasing Gabrielle.

J_ust once I wish my wife would cater to my 19th century male sensibilities,_ he mussed to the room. Rain had tormented the city since their ship steamed into the muddy waters of New York harbor three weeks ago. Erik could have sworn he was back in London. Today was the first time clouds hadn't concealed the sun. It was a day for sipping glasses of silky chateau du Neuf on the terrace and later, for slipping between Gabrielle's equally silky thighs.

_Ah well, my darling should be returning from her meeting with the_ _editor of that nouveau publication soon. Mademoiselle Caruso can take our boy to the park and treat him to the merry-go-round while I stay here for a go on the Gabby-go-round._ The prospect of plunging into his wife's tight velvet box created a sudden thickening in his trousers.

Five years ago, no one could have convinced Erik that he would soon have a pretty and passionate wife and a lively three-year-old son to look after. It was through a misplaced twist in time that Gabrielle came into his life on that June day in 1876—the day that his life had truly begun.

Staring at the cold dregs in his cup, he rang the butler's bell for another pot of Earl Grey. One beat behind it was the resonant three note chime of the front door bell.

Mademoiselle Caruso's footsteps clipped quickly up the long hallway of the rented town home. She poked her head through the study door briefly.

"Mademoiselle, I was under the impression that deliveries were to be made on Mondays and Thursdays. Who the devil could be calling _today_?"

"I've not clue, Monsieur," shrugged the little maid. They both turned in the direction of the front door when the chimes sounded again.

"Allow me to answer the door, Monsieur DuPuis, and then I shall then tend to whatever you need."

"Please, before the door bell is rendered inoperable. After you shoo away whoever has dared interrupt my day, I would like another pot of hot tea and some of Gabrielle's almond shortbreads."

"Oui, Monsieur," she replied in her soft French.

Erik reached leaned forward and shrugged into his top coat while the young maid scurried off to answer the door. He considered putting on the flesh-toned mask resting next to his discarded newspaper on the desk, but decided that whoever risked disturbing his morning reading could risk seeing his distorted face. Erik's rump had barely left the leather cushion of the chair when he heard heavy footsteps mingling with Mademoiselle's light clip nearing the study.

He started when Mademoiselle Caruso reappeared in the doorway and practically threw herself onto Erik. He reached out with one hand to steady the excited young woman and keep them from sharing an intimate embrace.

"Monsieur DuPuis, oh dear, you must come quickly!"

"Good heavens, Mademoiselle, calm yourself," Erik implored as he released her to stand on her own.

"Monsieur DuPuis—Gabrielle—it is the Gendarmes!" she blurted and glanced frantically over her shoulder at the male object of her hysteria.

Erik squeezed the maid's arm gently and pushed past her to receive his house guest.

A tall mustachioed redhead tipped his hat at Erik. "Inspector Riker at your service, sir. You are Erik DuPuis, husband of Gabrielle Thomassen-DuPuis, I presume?"

"I am." Erik glared.

"I fear I've come with unsettling news, sir."

The men paused long enough for a swift appraisal of each other. Inspector Riker did not follow Erik's vision of what a high ranking American lawman might look like. Instead of a long western duster, six-shooter and a cowboy hat, Riker wore a dark blue overcoat and bowler hat, which looked two sizes too small for his head.

Riker indulged in an dispassionate glance at Erik's face. Very little rattled the seasoned lawman as he'd seen his share of disfigurements. Erik offered the Inspector a suspicious scowl in return. History had taught him that anytime the police came calling, the end result was rarely desirable.

"What about my wife," Erik demanded, stepping closer to Riker and displaying his substantial height in hopes of intimidating the slightly shorter man. If anything had happened to Gabrielle, someone would pay with his life.

"Now sir—monsieur, please be assured your wife is safe and well. No harm has befallen her."

Erik glowered at the man and balled his hands into white-knuckled fists. "What has happened to my wife," he repeated, his voice turning low and lethal.

Though Inspector Riker did not move back in fear, he could not smother a small gasp. He recognized the deadly expression in Erik's eyes.

"Unfortunately, sir, Madame DuPuis has been arrested."

"Gabrielle, _arrested_—what, pray tell, for?" Erik veins boiled with blood lust. He wanted to clock this imbecile so hard he'd need a crane to stand again.

"Sir, I do not know the details, I am only here to inform you of the incident," Riker held his palms out toward Erik in a show of deference.

Erik stared at the man a good hard second or two longer before he finally stepped back.

"Gabrielle is a respectable citizen, a good wife and doting mother. If she is harmed, I promise there will be harsh reprimands."

"Now Monsieur DuPuis, there is no cause for violence. Please, come with me to the city jail where we can settle this matter as amiable gentlemen."

"Amiability was breached the moment you people arrested her," Erik spat. His humor had dissipated quickly and he was in no mood for facing the public today. Since coming to America, Erik seldom wore his mask. Gabrielle taught him how to apply a diluted wash of foundation to even out his facial discolorations, then he would put on a hair piece. Usually people paid scarce attention to Erik's face. With an abundance of wars littering the recent American and European landscape, few men had to justify their handicaps.

He turned to address Mademoiselle Caruso. "Mademoiselle, will you please rouse my son from his nap for his lunch. I shan't be long," he said throwing a determined scowl at Riker.

She nodded and placed a hand on Erik's arm, her brown eyes offering reassurance. "Oui, Monsieur. And do not worry about Madame Gabrielle, she will be fine, she is strong."

"Too much so at times I fear," he said and walked to the hall tree to retrieve his gloves and cloak. Flinging the cashmere garment around his shoulders, Erik turned to inspector Riker. "After you, sir," he said with icy politeness, letting the man pass before following him to the waiting carriage.

- () -  
_Humm, will the "merdé" hit the fan?_

_FYI:  
The first successful American-written operetta, Willard Spencer's The Little Tycoon in 1886, would not have been written if Gilbert and Sullivan's The Mikado had not been so successful in America the previous year. The majority of opera performed in America in the early 1880's came from European composers. Old moneyed American's thought anything else was too crass for their cultured ears._- () -

_**Will the "merdé" hit the fan?**_

_**Please review.**_

_**-Leesa**_


	3. Ch3 Petite Family

**_Good day to you all. Enjoy the chapter and thanks for your input  
-Leesainthesky_**

**Sojourns3**

The brief ride to the Ludlow Street Jail was strained, to say the least. Erik scowled out at the streets of New York City. Inspector Riker knew not to attempt small talk with the foreboding Frenchman.

Once inside the jail, Riker approached a sergeant sitting behind a battered desk. Erik strode up behind him, slammed his hand on the desk. "My wife, Madame DuPuis, I demand to know why she was arrested."

The sergeant shoved his chair back sending it banging into the wall behind him and stood abruptly, coming eyeball to eyeball with the irate Erik. "Sir, I urge you to lower your tone and stand back. Aggression will get you nowhere except perhaps in a cell next to wife."

Erik clenched his jaw and started to speak again when Riker held up his hands. "Please, Monsieur, allow me." Erik, realizing his aggression might well exacerbate the situation, calmed. The Inspector explained that Monsieur DuPuis was a guest in the country and simply concerned for his wife. The sergeant nodded and turned his attentions to a pile of paperwork next to him on the desk.

"DuPuis, you say—yes, right here. Seems she was brought in by two officers late this morning. Charged with indecent paraphernalia and resisting arrest."

The sweaty man squinted disapprovingly at Erik.

Resisting arrest was not so much of a surprise to Erik; however, the charge of indecency certainly was.

"Let me see her now" he demanded.

"Patience, sir; you'll be able to speak with her momentarily. I need to tell you that there is a hearing at 2:00 this afternoon. She can plead her case before the judge then; as her husband, you may plead for her."

"Plead for what?" Erik was livid. "My wife is not a common criminal," Erik barked. The vulgar flic was trying his patience, seizing him by the throat and squashing his paunchy body against the wall would have pleased Erik greatly. Yet he realized that his marred face created enough negative curiosity as it was and he wanted no more trouble.

"Forgive me. I am distraught about my dear wife. We've only been in the country for a little while. A good deal of your law is foreign to me—I wish to cause no harm."

Sergeant McKnight leaned in closer and whispered to Erik. "Sir, your wife was charged with possession of immoral articles for the use of preventing conception."

"A fact of which I am aware."

The sergeant raised an eyebrow at Erik. "You sanction such—things? In this country, we have laws for the protection of divine consequence. Why, I ought to arrest you too for being an accessory!"

"I dare you to be so foolish, monsieur," Erik chuckled darkly.

"Gentlemen, civility please," implored inspector Riker. A scene between the obviously well-heeled foreigner and the desk sergeant was something he wished to avoid.

"Sergeant, you will arrest no one. Inform Monsieur DuPuis of the procedure for his wife's release."

McKnight threw up his hands in a show of indignant surrender, reached into a wire basket overflowing with documents and riffled through them searching for Gabrielle's arrest papers.

Erik clasped his hands behind his back, muted his anger and addressed the inspector in a more civil tone. "I assure you that the offense my good wife is guilty of was by accident, not malice. In my country such things are not illegal. You see, I am a composer, an artist. Your city has commissioned me to direct one of my operas. Why, my wife is a celebrated writer, too. It is likely your wives have read her articles in Harper's,"

Inspector Riker exchanged a wary look with the sergeant. "Let me understand, Monsieur DuPuis. If you and your wife are guests of the city of New York then certainly a mistake has been made—wouldn't you say so, Sergeant?" The sergeant removed his glasses and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "If you say so, Riker—but it was the Superintendent who hoped to make an example of her insolence for our laws and—"

Riker intervened, "—And as a citizen of France and a guest of our country, I imagine our mayor would not be pleased to know Madame DuPuis is in the city jail for a simple cultural misunderstanding."

Inspector Riker was keen enough to realize what a stir it would cause should the New York press hounds find out what had been done to the city's newest celebrities. That Mayor William Grace was unaware his Superintendent of Police had arrested the composer's wife was inconsequential. Keeping the incident under wraps and the mayor free from embarrassment was more important to Riker. He also had political aspirations, which depended on the good will of Mayor Grace. The NYPD was a political tool with positions awarded by those in power to their cronies and loyal supporters.

Riker caressed his chin with his thumb thoughtfully. "The offense is a misdemeanor, punishable by no less than six months hard labor or a fine of no less than one hundred dollars and no more than one thousand dollars. Being this is your wife's first offense and she is a guest in our country, I will make sure any and all fees or charges incurred by your wife are eliminated. I think it prudent this grievous mistake be eradicated. McKnight, make the charges go away before word of it moves into the streets."

"Whatever you say, boss. But I want no backlash from the Superintendent," he groused, dipped a pen into the ink well and handed it over to Riker. The Inspector scrolled the nib across Gabrielle's arrest papers making illegible notations and scratched through the charges section.

When he finished, he pushed the paperwork back across the desk for the sergeant to process and turned to face Erik. "Let us put this bit of unpleasant business behind us, shall we, Monsieur DuPuis?"

Erik's mouth twitched into a knowing smile. "But of course and I applaud your wisdom, inspector. May I see my wife now?"

Keys were retrieved, heavy doors were opened and soon Erik was standing before his wife, a set of jail bars separating them.

"Erik, thank God it's you!" she exclaimed, sticking her hands out as far as the bars allowed and waving them at her husband. She wanted to cry, but willed the waterworks to cease, lest she seem as if she needed rescuing—which she did.

"Move back, Madame, if you please, you'll be free soon enough," the sergeant ordered, unlocking the cell door. Taking advantage of having his back to Erik, he eyed her breasts and smiled wickedly. Sergeant McKnight had a reputation for savoring the ladies.

"We're releasing you to the custody of your husband. Go on now."

Gabrielle was more intent on seeing her husband than dressing down McKnight for his vulgarity. She was out of the cell and into Erik's arms before the sergeant could sneak another peek at her assets.

"Darling, what have these cretins done to you?" Erik asked returning her embrace. Even though the cell was not horrific, it was still a cell; small, dark and dirty. Erik's heart broke and he burned with anger at the sight of his beloved wife behind bars. He remembered.

Noting the Sergeant's scowl at his negative connotation, the couple chose to communicate in French for the remainder of their conversation. Erik doubted this fellow had the intellect for advanced comprehension.

Gabrielle stroked his face lovingly. "Sweetheart, you will not believe what happened. After my meeting with the magazine editor, I was strolling down Fifth Avenue, thinking of getting back to you, looking for a cab, when I tripped and lost the contents of my purse. Stuff went flying everywhere including into the path of the man I recognized as Superintendent Daily. Naturally, I was embarrassed and scrambled like a sand crab to retrieve it all. Just my luck the city official zeroed in on the tin of French letters—the ones I keep for our 'impromptu recreation,'" she giggled, recalling a particularly heated tryst in the back of a hansom. "Let me tell you, that's when all hell broke loose."

Erik took her hand in his and caressed her palm with his thumb. "That Inspector informed me you'd done something improper, you naughty girl," he winked. "What I fail to grasp is why the imbeciles would arrest a married woman for carrying contraceptives in her personal reticule? Why is our private business any of their business?"

"It's the Comstock laws. Nothing shall come between the egg and sperm!" she said with the solemnity of a priest.

"Puritans—such utter bullshit"! Erik spat, adding some choice expletives.

"I should have known better, I minored in history. Geez, I've carried those French letters with me for so long it didn't occur to me I that I had illegal contraband on my person. What a brilliant stroke of luck, they just had to land at the feet of a man who wants very much to be considered for the mayor's office the next election. He had to set a good example by arresting me—a debauched woman—right on the spot."

"For a young and progressive country, aren't such laws rather idiotic?" Erik asked, removing his hand from hers to wrap it protectively around her waist.

Gabrielle shrugged. "It's more political, really. Under the guise of preserving righteousness and family values, the government adds to its population and controls their women by making any sort of conception a sin punishable by law. So much for separation of church and state, huh?"

Erik's answer was a cynical snort.

"Well, it was amusing to see the faces of the other officers when they brought me in for booking. Imagine, a French woman with naughty items in her purse; such scandal!" This last part Gabrielle said in English, for the benefit of the gawking men in the jail lobby.

"My little minx, always prepared for a tryst isn't you," he chuckled, giving his wife an indecent smile as he pulled open the heavy oak door of the county jail.

"With you as a husband I'd better. But I think while we're in this country, we'd best keep our activities to the bedroom."

Erik pouted. "Such a pity—you know what an adventure I am, my dear."

While holding the door for Gabrielle he noted Sergeant McKnight staring at him. Erik smiled and acknowledged the sergeant with a tip of an imaginary hat. "Au revoir, baiseur de porcs," he said in silky French.

Gabrielle' hand flew to her mouth. She glanced around to see if anyone had caught Erik's verbal deception. Once they stepped through the jail doors and out of ear shot, she released a guffaw and nudged Erik with her elbow. Holy crap, Erik! You just can't help getting in the last word can you? Thank heavens no one in that lobby speaks French, mister.

Erik shrugged indifferently. "If they did, they did not disagree."

"I'm just happy to be free of that place. What a freakin' nightmare. When I asked for something to eat, they brought me bread and water—just like in the books and movies. Can you believe that?"

He could, and he knew that authorities had a tendency toward unfair bias when it came to women. Yet he wondered if his spirited wife may have, ever so slightly, provoked the officers. He decided it best not to ask, lest he spend his nights missing the satisfying warmth of his wife's body.

Gabrielle wanted to walk a few blocks before hailing a cab back to the town home, so she could gather her wits before returning to their son, Erik-Jon. Erik obliged and hooked his arm in hers. The couple walked along quietly through the crowded city observing the bustling street life. For Erik, New York was considerably different than Paris or London. People were more hurried, walked with more purpose, as if their lives depended upon haste.

Eventually the streets became too muddy to walk without mucking up the hems of their fine garments. Erik hailed a cab, and as the footman closed the door, he turned to his wife, giving her a brief, oblique smile.

"Well then, my darling jailbird, now that I have you safely ensconced within the walls of this conveyance I trust we'll have no more brushes with the law today?"

"Comedian you are not, DuPuis," she said tossing him a cautionary glance.

"I thought myself rather amusing," he quipped, his green eyes sparkling devilishly as he drew her close.

**_- () - _**

A lot of you guessed the French letters. Please review.

**The Comstock Laws**, passed in the United States in 1873, was part of a campaign for legislating public morality in the United States. The law was meant to stop trade in "obscene literature" and "immoral articles" targeting not only at obscenity and "dirty books" but at birth control devices and information on such devices, at abortion, and at information on sexuality. The Comstock laws weren't repealed until 1938—can you imagine?

Details on **NYPD **history can be found at de porcs: Fu-ker of pigs 


	4. Ch4 Just Another Day

**At the request of Jax, I am now naming the chapters. **

Sojurns4 Just Another Day

It is fortunate for you, my dear, that the city functionaries are fond of political jousting. Having you incarcerated in the city penitentiary for the next six months would cause me immense disappointment, an emotion that I do not bear well," Erik said, drawing his wife's hand to his lips.

"Yeah, breaking rocks is not my idea of a vacation."

Gabrielle blew a long stream of air at a tuft of unruly hair that had fallen in her eyes and faced her husband. I'm sorry for causing trouble, Erik. I know I should be more careful about my liberties, or lack thereof. Phew, what a nightmare being locked up in an unfamiliar place and time—not knowing if the authorities would inform you of my whereabouts. And the way some of the men kept eyeing me made my skin crawl."

"Did any of the curs dare touch you?"

"No, thank God. After the Sergeant warned me to observe behavior befitting a lady, I pretty much chilled. I've seen a far too many women-in-prison movies to push the envelope."

"I would have enjoyed a strong reason to unload my outrage on those vulgarians," Erik said, feigning disappointment.

"I wouldn't have held you back this time, sweetheart."

Within thirty minutes the DuPuis' were back at their temporary residence in the artistically fashionable Gramercy Park south. Mademoiselle Caruso had laid out a sumptuous luncheon on the garden veranda and roused their son from his midday nap to join his parents.

After two years of service to the DuPuis household, the young French woman had grown accustomed to Erik's scars and of Gabrielle's oddball behavior. Before meeting Madame Dupuis, Carrie Caruso had never encountered a more independent and spirited woman, married or otherwise. She looked forward to their frequent sessions femelles and was devoted to the DuPuis family.

Starved and exhausted, Gabrielle wolfed down lunch, indulged in a long lavender-infused bath and a nap. Awaking in better spirits, she then persuaded Erik to escort his little family for a duck feeding excursion in the park.

Gramercy Park was a lovely oasis of privacy and beauty where many of the city's talented and wealthy artists lived. Erik felt more at home here than nearly anywhere else he had previously lived.

With the departure of the rain came a fresh sweetness. Early spring flowers nudged their way through the soil while pear and cherry trees waved their small green flags in the early spring breeze. The sun tickled the tree tops, promising a slow descent into the west. Erik and Gabrielle loved the late afternoon. Long shadows stretched across the landscape and the waning light shrouded them in a rosy haze as they walked around the perimeter of the duck pond.

Two-and-a-half year old Jon toddled along after the ducklings squealing "uckie" with childish enthusiasm while tossing small bits of bread at them.

"Stop, Jon you've gone far enough," Erik warned firmly when the boy neared the water's edge. At the sound of his father's voice, he made a swift about face and ended up bottom down on the soft grass.

Gabrielle laughed at the youngster's lack of coordination on the uneven turf and hurried to help him to his feet.

"Feed uckies!" he cried again, showing his mother a palm full of mashed bread.

"Yes, let's feed the duckies, okay? Give me your other hand," she said, leading him closer to the water where several ducks and a swan floated about. He giggled with delight whenever one of the water fowl swam to investigate his offerings.

Erik kneeled next to his son. He reached into Gabrielle's small basket for more bread and beckoned his son. "Jon, now watch me. See how I persuade the ducks to feed."

He kept still and held the bread in his outstretched palm. Three of the ducks instantly waddled up to him and gently plucked the bread from his hand. The boy shrieked gleefully and tried to mimic his father by thrusting his hand at the birds, effectively scaring them away.

"Like this," Erik instructed patiently, taking Jon's small hand and cradling it in his palm. He showed him how to hold the bread and remain still until the ducks took it.

When one of the birds approached, Jon giggled. "Shhh, do not scare little fellow," Erik cautioned. "Be still and watch."

Following his father's advice, the youngster watched with intense anticipation. After the duck helped himself to the bread, Jon flapped his hands wildly, shouting, "I feed uckies, papa!"

"Indeed, you have son. The ducks seem well pleased by your good deed," Erik laughed, scooping him up and placed him atop his shoulders. Gabrielle smiled and shot a wary glance at her husband.

"You've whet his appetite for duck charming. I only hope he has the same talents for taming the beasts as you do or he'll spend his childhood having me dab ointment on a variety of nips and scratches, or worse."

Erik merely grinned at the thought of sharing one of his more favorable traits with his offspring.

They walked the perimeter of the little pond, feeding the ducks an entire loaf of bread until the wind changed direction, sending a brisk northern breeze rustling through the park.

Gabrielle pulled her light wrap tighter around her shoulders and glanced at the horizon.

"It's best we return before one of you catches a chill," Erik observed.

"I suppose. It's near beddy-bye time anyway, munchkin," Gabrielle said, giving Jon's foot a playful wiggle.

The retreating sun backlit the trees with vivid stripes of blood-orange fire. Jon grasped his father's neck and bent to whisper in his ear, "Papa…fire?"

It took a moment for Erik to make the connection between the boy's words and the sunset.

"What you see is the sun going to bed—setting. Before she bids us adieu, she treats us to a handsome light show so we will miss her," Erik replied gently.

"No, Papa, make her stay!" Jon seemed alarmed at the idea that the sun might leave them. Suppose she decided not to return?

"Do not fret, dear boy. She'll be back in the morning to wake you up for breakfast."

"Isn't the sunset pretty, Jon?" asked his mother.

"Pretty fire!" the boy shrieked against Erik's ear.

"Jon, not so loud or you will surely deafen your old papa," Erik cautioned.

"Okay, papa," the boy yawned and rested his chin on the top of Erik's head.

Back at the town house, Gabrielle bathed Jon and dressed him for sleep then joined Erik to tuck him. She helped recite his nighttime prayer, kissed him and left Erik behind to read a selection from his current favorite bedtime story, "Le Chat Botté".

The DuPuis' temporary residence was of the Greek Revival style, bearing brick, with cast-iron verandas. Its interior was decorated primarily in the American Windsor style, popular in the latter part of late nineteenth century. The parlour was the exception with its fat, comfy Louis XV bergères armchairs, large marble hearth and dark oak molding. It was the one room in the house Erik did not find distastefully bland.

Gabrielle was thankful to see a fire blazing in the hearth. She approached the sideboard, chose a decanter of pinot noir, poured two glasses and curled up in the corner of one of the room's two overstuffed sofas. Raising the glass she took a long sip. The wine's plumy warmth felt good sliding down her throat; she closed her eyes and rolled her head from side to side attempting to relax her knotted muscles.

The day's events intruded. What if Erik hadn't rescued her from the jail? How long would she have been there and what sort of treatment might she have received without his intervention? Maybe she should have stayed to find out. Then she could write a story about the treatment of women prisoners and rally for more humane conditions.

_Right, Gabrielle, don't you have enough irons in the fire as it is_? she scoffed. _You joined Erik for this American adventure and gained a writing assignment. With a young child and a husband to look after isn't your plate overfull? My family deserves more of my time than any other person or lofty cause_, she admonished herself silently.

As a woman from another century, Gabrielle was cautious with her nineteenth century philanthropic pursuits. Her activities could not make any waves in the timeline of historic events, but she could help ease the suffering of a portion of the poor and powerless citizens. Just maybe…

Her series of articles for the City Woman's Journal would address how much more ground the Suffragette's had covered in America than in France, yet had miles to go when it came to helping their sisters who worked in the city's numerous brothels. A good deal of suffragettes saw prostitutes as being detrimental to women's empowerment and did little to help them find alternate employment, an angle Gabrielle hadn't considered until six days ago when she received a letter from a Mr. Paul Sheffield. Sheffield had come to New York City in search of his sister, Pauline, a dancer in the Victoria Ballet Company in England. The young woman had traveled to America in search of work in one of the city's theatres. Her brother believed it was more about finding a particular beau who worked in the entertainment business.

Paul had been distraught when Pauline broke off all contact with the family. He became fearful that something sinister had happened to her; fears which bloomed when he visited the Mosaic Theatre to call on the house Ballet mistress. The mistress, Miss Crenshaw, informed him that Pauline had indeed been under their wing for all of six weeks, but was dismissed from the ballet when her delicate emotional condition interfered with her performance. "Unfortunately, Sir, I believe your sister fell under the spell of a man who woos young dancers with lofty promises of which he does not intend to keep. I am deeply sorry. Should I hear of her whereabouts, I will send you a telegram at your hotel," she offered with a discouraging sigh.

As Mr. Sheffield left the Mosaic, he was approached by a young dancer who'd made it her business to listen in on private conversations. Millicent Gardner said she'd heard from one of the other dancers that Pauline was employed in a house of ill-repute, located in the city's eighth ward. Armed with this unsettling news, Paul Sheffield sniffed about every brothel in the city's seedy eighth and fifth wards, to no avail.

Eight days later, Mr. Sheffield returned to the Mosaic in hopes of extracting more information from the other dancers. Surrounded by a gaggle of girls curious about this handsome and well dressed European man, Paul Sheffield told his story. Few knew much, if anything, about Pauline except that in the first week after her arrival, she'd been seen on the arm of a stylish young Italian—a man she claimed she was to marry. The engagement must have been short-lived because after that first week he disappeared and Pauline took to crying in her room when not in rehearsal. Had she fallen into the grasp of the city's popular prostitution trade? None of the dancers knew for sure. However, the principal dancer, Kate Cameron, offered a suggestion.

One afternoon while on stage going over a particularly difficult move, Kate caught overheard the director and the composer of the Mosaic's new production, Le Femme du Norde, chatting. Mr. Appleton inquired about the composer's wife—how was she filling her time while he toiled at the theatre. The tall Frenchman assured Mr. Appleton that his wife stayed busy with the care of their young son and, as writer, was planning an article about the suffragette movement and prostitution. Appleton asked Monsieur DuPuis if he was concerned about the public's reaction to her choice of subject matter and might he fear for her safety. The composer only shrugged and said he had great respect for his wife's work. It was society's abuse of women which he found unpardonable. His wife, a savvy woman, was accustomed to large cities and never went into the dark areas of New York un-chaperoned or unarmed.

That was all Miss Cameron heard before another dancer approached her for help with a costume. Kate suggested to Mr. Sheffield that perhaps Monsieur DuPuis' wife could be of help in locating Pauline.

The next day Mr. Sheffield sent a letter to the DuPuis' residence in care of Madame Thomassen-DuPuis, requesting an audience with her as soon as possible. Gabrielle returned his correspondence with an invitation to visit the following Thursday morning. During their meeting, he recounted his sad story and begged for any assistance she or her husband might offer. Gabrielle promised to keep her eyes and ears open for any sign of his honey-haired twenty year old sister.

Gabrielle stared into the fire and twirled the stem of the wine glass in her hands. _If only I knew the name of Pauline's former lover_…

"Bwha!" She exclaimed and flinched when a pair of lips brushed against the nape of her neck. Erik.

"What is this, do the lips of you lover cause you fear?" he said, pretending he was wounded by her reaction. With a pout he slipped around the sofa and sat down.

"Sneak attacks have a way of causing me to jump," she said handing him glass of wine from the table.

"That, Madame was hardly an attack," he said, peering down at her with a dark grin.

"You know what I mean. I was thinking and you startled me."

"Is this better," he said, leaning over to place a soft kiss on her neck.

"Yes, much better."

"Where were you just now?"

"Thinking about how I can help Mr. Sheffield find his sister. After this morning, going to the police is out."

"Most wise," Erik agreed. "From what I have been told the law turns a blind eye to prostitution. Many receive gratis favors for protecting the women. I doubt they care to expose their dirty little secrets to a journalist."

"Jerk-offs. Too bad they can't rally behind the good people who want to help these poor women have a better life. I'm not talking about the benevolent sheep in wolves clothing who pretend to care while sticking the women in a laundry or sweat house, then extract a hefty chunk of their earning for themselves." Erik watched the way her eyes flashed and her lips curled when she talked about injustice.

"Those with weak souls have a penchant for preying on the corporally weak. That, you may forever count on, my dear."

"Yeah, I know—bastards," she muttered. "I just hope Paul's sister isn't dead. We've just got to help him find her, Erik."

"'_We_,' Madame? I do not recall enlisting for this crusade. I know it is in your nature to help, but I am past my couilles in opera rehearsals, Gabrielle."

"You're already involved in this due to the conversation you had with Appleton about my writing. All I ask is that you do what you do so well—snoop."

"I am not a snoop—"

"Oh for heavens sake, Erik, you're the master of _l'art de l'espion_. What could take me months will take you mere days. See what you can unearth out about Pauline and her rat fink ex while you're at the theatre, Please?" she crooned snuggling up to him and sliding her hand beneath his waistcoat.

Erik rolled his eyes and sighed, "Mon Dieu, Gabrielle…and you dare call _me_ manipulative. I shall do what I can, I promise." He kissed his wife and rose to pour more wine.

"While you're up?" she asked handing him her empty wine glass. "Oh, by the way, Erik, tomorrow we're going to the eighth ward neighborhood. Paul wants me to be with him when he approaches the girls of the area. He thinks that a feminine presence may draw them out."

"The eighth ward is a harsh neighborhood, Gabrielle. I am not sure I want you there."

"I had a feeling you'd say that. Paul will be with me and you know I am vigilant when it comes to potential danger. I can kickbox—remember how I tossed you on your kiester in Paris?"

"You caught me unaware," he scowled, remembering the time she and Madame Roux's daughter, Caron, took off on their forbidden café romp. Thinking Erik was away on business, the ladies danced, sang and drank their way through Paris until he returned early from his trip and caught them in the act with Gabrielle disguised as a man.

"Yeah… Erik caught unaware. When pearls shoot out of your—"

"Gabrielle, really woman, I think you've had enough wine." He shook his head and pulled the glass out of her reach.

"Just because you don't agree with me I must be snockered—is that how it goes?" Gabrielle laughed, stretched forward, plucked the pinot Noir from him and placed it on the sofa table so as not to spill the wine.

"I do swear, Gabrielle. At times you are très maddening," Erik retorted, sitting back down at the opposite end of the sofa. Even after three years, he still failed to see the humor in the night he had captured Gabrielle and spirited her back to the safety of his manor. The woman had other ideas and, as an end result, Erik found himself tossed onto the cobblestone streets of Paris on his backside, courtesy of a swift roundhouse kick.

"I trust you are aware that dressing as a man is a crime in the states?" he cautioned.

"Doesn't matter anyway. Now that you are no longer ashamed to be seen in public with me, I don't know longer need to cross-dress."

"Humph," Erik scoffed, crossing his leg across one knee and glowering off into space while he waited for his wife to stop laughing. Gabrielle scooted closer to her husband.

"Sweetheart, I appreciate how you worry about me. If you like, you can go with us tomorrow. I always feel safer when you're near," she said affectionately, searching his pale green eyes for signs of consent, stroking his arm and his ego.

Uncertain of her sincerity, he studied her studied her expression.

Erik felt better overseeing their foray into the darker side of the city. It would give him a chance to observe firsthand what Gabrielle was getting into. He feared her search might only uncover disappointment. The downtrodden were a wary lot. They did not appreciate outsiders meddling in their affairs.

He nodded, "I will accompany you, with Mr. Sheffield's consent, naturally."

"Good. I'm sure he won't mind."

Erik uncrossed his legs and shifted sideways so they were face to face. "Gabrielle—you simply must take precautions. Sometimes, even now, you forget to temper your modern ways. This is not the city you remember, darling."

"Don't you think I know that, Erik? Geez." She folded her arms and directed a glare at her wine glass on the table. Erik's concern for her was fine. Thinking of her as helpless was not.

He grasped her face in both hands and gently turned her to look at him." My love, it is not my intent to insult your intelligence. I worry about you. It is my job as your husband to do so."

Gabrielle's expression softened.

"I know, Erik. I can be trying at times. I'm sorry."

"As can we both," he replied, drawing her into a kiss. She swung her legs over his lap and pulled him down until he rested on top of her. Erik adjusted his long frame into a more comfortable position and they lingered, enjoying each other's kisses until both felt the trials of the day melt and slip away.

Noting Erik's reaction to their closeness, she suggested they retire for the evening—one suggestion Erik would never argue against.

- () -

_French lesson: couilles-Balls. l'art de l'espion-the art of spying. (__Yeah, I know merde hads no accent mark. I lost my head in the last chapter and did that. Maybe Erik will whip me for that!)_

**For those of you who've been asking for more heat, I promise they'll be a good dose of it in the next chapter. For those who do not like the heat, sorry. Erik was a 46 year old virgin, he's got a lot of catching up to do.** ** ;-)**

**Please review. Leesa**


	5. Ch5 Reperations

**_I hope you had a Joyeux Noël. My computer situation is still bleak, but I'm using one at a friends house until I return to work. Consider this a belated Christmas present. It's hot with a touch of S & M, nothing offensive (I hope). Enjoy. _**

-Leesa

Sojourns Ch5 Reparations 

"I'll be up to bed momentarily, Gabrielle," Erik said, then yawned, kissed his wife and headed off in the direction of the back of the house without another word.

Gabrielle shrugged her shoulders. Suddenly he seemed tired. She wouldn't be too disappointed if sleep was the only nocturnal activity on his mind. Hers was busy racing over the events of the past 24 and of tomorrow's meeting with Paul Sheffield.

She extinguished what was left of the fire in the hearth and paused to consider the empty wine glasses before deciding to leave them for Mademoiselle Caruso.

The early spring nights stubbornly clung to a winter chill. Even though Mademoiselle Caruso had lit a fire well in advance of the DuPuis usual bedtime, the master suite was cooler than Gabrielle would have liked. She added another log to the blaze and tossed another blanket on the bed.She was busy smoothing out the corners of covering and didn't look up when Erik entered the room and nuzzled her neck.

"My sweet, you've been a very bad wife today--getting arrested and all. I feel it is my duty as your husband to administer a bit of correction," he breathed into her ear.

She snorted and stretched out of his reach to fluff the pillows. "Oh yeah, buster? What did you have in mind?""Look at me."

"Hang on a minute; I have to fluff up these—"

"I don't give a damn about the pillows—look at me, now," he growled, turning her around to face him.

"Erik—!"

Her protests were smothered up in a purposeful kiss as he slipped the silken robe from her shoulders and ran his hands down her arms.

Something was odd about his touch. He cupped her breasts and she glanced down to notice he was wearing his kid leather ridding gloves.

The thought of quizzing him about this unusual bedroom attire slithered from her thoughts when he trailed his finger from her breastbone to the delicate skin just below her navel. The soft leather created a thrilling tickle in her belly. Gabrielle sighed and turned up the intensity of their kissing.

Breathing heavily, Erik released her from his lips and locked his gaze on/with hers. His expression was unreadable.

"Give me your hands," he commanded.

"Why," she questioned a little suspiciously.

"I have something for you."

"Okey dokey. Here they are," she said holding her arms out dutifully. 

He produced a length of soft suede and grinned wickedly as he wrapped the suede/it around her wrists, binding them together.

Gabrielle arched a brow and smiled impishly. Whatever he had in mind, she was open to his harmless game and allowed him to lead her to the end of the four poster bed.

"Turn around."

"Oui, Monsieur," she answered playfully.

"Do not speak unless spoken to. Now, bend over."

She mouthed a silent "oh" and followed his instructions, sticking her rear end up for added affect.

Erik chuckled darkly. "My little jailbird dares tempt me, does she?" He bent over her naked body and snared her bound wrists in one hand. In his other hand she saw another suede tether.

_Ah, so that's his game_. Gabrielle got it. Before she could protest he'd moved with the stealth of a snake and lashed her to the bed post.

"What in the world are you up to," she inquired, sounding slightly perturbed.

"You must pay for your insolence, Gabrielle. Open your legs," he purred.  
"Playing the taskmaster are we?"

"Did I not say no speaking unless spoken to?" he barked and slapped her behind with one of his gloved hands.

"_Erik_!" She could do no more than jump and cry out his name.

He issued another gentle, but affective smack to her cheeks.

"Must I bind your mouth as well?"

This time, she shook her head no.

"Today, you made me leave the comfort of my home to rescue you from jail. A proper wife would never, ever allow herself to be in such a compromising position. Due to your imprudence, I feel I must discipline you."

Erik walked into her view. In his hand he held his instrument of correction. A devious and seductive smile spread across his lips—his eyes twinkled a dark, mossy green. 

"Are you prepared to take your punishment like a good wife, Gabrielle?" he asked.

She looked up at him with moist eyes.

"You may answer, yes or no."

"Yes."

"Very well."

Erik moved back to stand behind her and ran the leather fingers down her spine and swirled them slowly over her buttocks, then removed one of the gloves.

"One lash for each hour of my precious time used up in your rescue. I think it a fair punishment, don't you, dear?"

"Yes."

"Yes, _Erik_."

"Yes, Erik."

Gabrielle did not think he would harm her, but his stern voice and mischievous demeanor put her senses on alert.

"I shall grant you five good licks," he informed, his voice deepened with an earthy sensuality which, in spite of herself, she was helpless to resist.

"One," Erik smacked her rump with the glove. After five well placed swats, he stopped. His intent was never to cause pain, but to try on a fantasy he'd been pondering since the afternoon. Erik did so love to play the master.

Noticing how Gabrielle's behind had turned a lovely shade of pink, he bent down to retrieve a bottle of aloe vera lotion that he'd previously placed at the foot of the bed.

"My poor, pretty darling, so naked and helpless. You are taking your correction well and for that you will be rewarded."

Erik poured a generous dollop of the jasmine scented lotion in his palm and slathered it over her backside, massaged the fleshy inside of her thighs and back up across her hips.

Gabrielle could not retain a breathy moan of pleasure and nudged his hand with her hips as though she were a young cat in heat. Erik smiled to himself with satisfaction and kissed the back of her neck below her shoulder.

"Such a bad, bad, girl you've been. To pay for your crimes, you will serve me tonight." His soft whisper bore a needy, determined edge.

"You may kneel, now" he said, indicating the cushioned bench at the end of their bed. 

"Keep your legs apart, my darling. I need to see all of you."

All at once she felt vulnerable and excited.

"Yes, there. Lovely."

For a moment, Gabrielle heard only his breathing. Then she felt two leathered fingers stroking around her slick entrance. From front to back he went with an unmercifully feathery touch.

She had a meltdown when his two fingers became one, brushing against her hardened pearl and back across the center of her swollen lips.

"Honey, damn—enough. Can't you punish me with your cock?" she pled with a slight laugh. If Erik's goal was to turn her into a red-hot glob of quivering woman flesh, he had succeeded.

"Silence!" he reminded her with a harsh admonishment. Erik's cock pulsed painfully inside his trousers, begging for relief, but he was not yet finished.

"Patience, my sweet, will be your reward."

He stopped fondling her momentarily and removed a glove. Her sex ached for attention, which he gave to her in the form of several slaps with the smooth leather right on her engorged lips.

It pleased Erik that the air smelled of horny woman. He drew back and savored the view of her wet behind and his prick screamed at him, _Baisez-la, imbécile_.

Soon she heard the rustle of fabric, assumed he was disrobing and anticipated with relish the feel of her husband's delightfully swollen cock. Instead, Erik dropped into a crouch. He graced her legs with licks and kisses, pausing to savor the soft skin behind her knees.

Gabrielle arched her back and rested her head on her bound wrists, praying that his torture would soon cease.

Not yet. Once between her thighs, he ran his tongue over the loose folds hanging there before taking all of her in his mouth and sucking.

She tasted wonderful. So savory and so juicy that his cock burned in anticipation of how it would feel tightly packed into her dewy splendor.

When he felt certain he'd inflamed his wife's passion to the limit, he rubbed his hardened length between her legs enjoying the sensation of her lubricious sex against his.

"Erik, please, stick it in me, no more torture," she plead in a desperately whisper.

_Smack_! The glove sailed over her rump.

"You do not speak to me, I am your Lord and master tonight. Refuse to obey and I will bring your little bud to a boil and then leave you without release," he threatened.

Mission accomplished, she thought.

Erik grabbed her hips in his large hands and pulled her behind against him, stabbing his sex into her, slippery, tight tunnel. He groaned and grasped her tighter. His slow "in and out" became fast and furious.

God how Gabrielle loved being fucked by her lusty husband.

"Would you like it harder?" he grunted.

"Please," she whimpered and thrust her behind against his hips to make her point.

He stopped. "Please, Erik."

"Yes, _please _Erik," she gasped.

He growled, "With infinite pleasure," and thrust pointedly into his wife causing her to moan and coo. She pushed her mound against a small decorative pillow straining for release.

Like everything else Erik took on, he'd learned how to master Gabrielle and played her body as though it was a fine instrument. He surprised her by rotating his hips in circles, massaging her insides."

Struggling not to vocalize her appreciation too loudly, she uttered a string of breathy gasps and whimpers against the blinding ecstasy. Erik had broken her and she clenched his cock in a vice like grip.

Erik rested his chin atop her head, grunted and rammed the tip of his cock against her womb, panting like a desert vagabond. As she squeezed the last spasm of pleasure from her body she felt the hot rush of his orgasm flood within her.

It was then that she realized they'd used no protection.

- () -

_A big thanks to Barb, the betamaster for helping me out. Thanks to you for reading, commenting and "Keeping it real"_


	6. Ch6 Downtown Bound

**Sojourns6 Downtown Bound **

"Oh my God, Erik!" Gabrielle exclaimed and forgetting she was still bound, recoiled against the bedpost when she attempted to turn around. "Ow. Damn that hurt. Game over. Please untie me."

Her husband, who had been gasping against her naked back, rubbed his nose where the back of her head had brushed against him. "With haste, before you cause harm to the both of us," he said, rising to free his wife from her restraints.

Bands of red marked Gabrielle's wrists where, while in ecstasy, she had strained against her bindings .

"Mon amour," Erik soothed, running his fingers lightly over the demarcations on her skin.

"I'll live—my fault, really, for matching your gusto."

A satisfyed smile crossed his lips and he pressed tender kisses to her wrists. "If what you claim is true, then why are you so anxious to be free from my embrace?"

"Erik, neither one of us remembered protection," she said, rising up and flexing the stiffness from her limbs.

He blinked. In his haste to indulge in a bit of fantasy, Erik had forgotten to retrieve a French letter from the open tin, now winking at him from the bedside table.

"Oh—I did, didn't I?" he replied, giving Gabrielle a sheepish, 'I'm sorry' look.

Naked, they stood inches apart and stared at each other, contemplating what to say and who should say it first.

She wondered silently if he'd forgotten on purpose. Erik did love to be in charge and in the past six months he'd often mentioned that perhaps it was time to strive for another child, something she'd been stalling on until Jon's third birthday. But he wouldn't be so devious, would he?

"Erik, you didn't mean to forget, did you, you know, subconsciously?" she asked in a tone she hoped was not accusatory.

"Heavens no," he balked and crossed his arms across his chest.

"I suppose it doesn't matter anyway. Eventually we will have a girl, of that I am sure. Maybe time knows better than I do of when and where," she sighed, smiling softly and reached over to pluck a sweaty strand of brown hair from her husband's brow.

Gabrielle once told Erik the few details about his life she remembered from her music history class. The mysterious DuPuis was one of her favorite composers, so the information did not fly from her mind with many other tidbits of higher learning.

Erik had an American wife, a son and a daughter. That much she remembered.

"It may be of no consequence anyhow. A man's seed does not always hit its mark everytime," Erik stated phlegmatically, shrugging his shoulders at her.

"True enough. I'll know next week."

Erik retrieved Gabrielle's discarded dressing gown and handed it to her, knowing her next steps would be down the hall to the water closet to freshen up.

"Next week?" his one brow rose in question.

"My menses," she said making the sign for thumbs up or down

"I see." He nodded his head and made a hasty retreat to the wash stand, leaving her to giggle under her breath. She found Erik's occasional bouts of Victorian modesty endearing. Especially after he'd captured and ravished her like a randy lord.

Finally the couple crawled beneath the bed sheets; however sleep was far from their collective thoughts. Gabrielle took liberties with her husband, ordering him onto his back where she spent a murderously long time exploring the most responsive areas of his lean form.

Eventually she rewarded him with a thunderous ride into exhaustion.

The following day, three quarters of the DuPuis household awoke early to the first dry morning they'd seen since coming to America.

Mademoiselle Caruso prepared breakfast while Gabrielle dressed young Jon. Being a woman of wealth made little difference to her when it came to her son. Gabrielle enjoyed caring for her child and she never understood other well-heeled women who handed the care of their children off to a nanny as if they were nothing more than a sack of laundry for cleaning. It pleased her that Erik bypassed traditional male norms of leaving such things to the women-folk and included himself in caring for his son.

Erik entered the breakfast area with his top coat in hand and cravat tied loosely about his neck.

Gabrielle smirked. A disheveled Erik was an unusual sight even first thing in the morning.

"Good morning, sweet cakes!" she chimed brightly. "Tired are we?"

He threw her a sideways glance and snorted. "What time shall we expect your Monsieur Sheffield today?"

"Three-thirty, Carrie is going to serve tea in the parlour for us."

To this Erik nodded, slipped into his top coat, gracefully pulled in his chair and claimed his spot at the head of the tab. He reached for his previously filled coffee cup, frowned and gazed toward the kitchen doorway. "Madame Caruso, my coffee is ice cold. Bring me a fresh carafe at once." He turned to his wife in mild irritation. "Did she pour this for me at the break of dawn?"

Gabrielle lifted her head from the paper she'd been perusing and smiled gently at him. "It's much later than you think, Erik. You slept past nine-thirty today."

"Did I? Well, I suppose a man like me needs his rest with a wife like you to keep him on his toes."

"Yeah, well, ditto, buster."

Madame Caruso entered with a full carafe of hot coffee apologizing profusely in French for allowing the master's cup to cool. Erik waved away her concern as she poured him a fresh cup of the thick, Turkish brew.

"Carrie, it's best to leave a full, hot carafe on the table on mornings when Erik is not seated at his usual time." Gabrielle advised affably. "I don't mind pouring it myself, you know."

"But Madame, it is my job to serve you and monsieur DuPuis," she protested.

"It's no big deal, as long as Erik gets his coffee, he doesn't care who pours it for him, do you dear?"

Erik was occupied with the arts section of the _Times_. His answer was a noncommittal grunt.

"See?" Gabrielle said brightly.

The girl bobbed her head and smiled. Unusual requests were the norm in the DuPuis household.

Erik folded the paper and reached for a croissant. "Where is our son?" he asked.

"In the back garden playing dragons and knights with Scotty from across the street."

Erik shot her a blank look.

"The Carlisle's youngest boy. Remember I told you about them? Mr. Carlisle is a playwright and his wife, a fallen debutante. Evidently when Mrs. Carlisle was a girl, she took the 'coming' part of the debut season way too literally," she added with a knowing wink.

"Silly of me to have forgotten," he replied, lightly smacking his palm against his forehead. "I see you've sniffed out their personal histories already, darling."

"Don't forget, Erik, I was once paid well to know what the celebrities were up to," Gabrielle reminded her husband and passed the morning news to him, which he carefully folded in half. She marveled at how gracefully Erik managed his paper while sipping coffee with out spilling either drink or pages everywhere.

oOo

In a bedroom the precise size of a maid's closet in a part of Manhattan far removed from the stately brownstones and exclusive town homes of Gramercy Park, Pauline Sheffield wrestled with her conscience.

How, she wondered, could a middleclass English woman, trained to dance for the crème of society, have fallen so far as to become Madame Bonnefoy's newest little whore?

Not that Pauline was a virgin, oh no, she'd removed that label the night the promise of irrevocable love had been whispered in her ear. Words she believed. Why not? The man in question treated her with kindness and respect, was always the gentleman (nearly always) and wooed her with lavish gifts including an engagement ring (already pawned for food).

How could she have known her fiancé's true identity included being nearly destitute with a desperate need for employment?

Beautiful music, that is what the two of them would make when they paired her talent for the dance with his brilliant knowledge of the performing arts. "America is a naked pallet begging for talented Europeans to come and paint life onto her," he told her.

And America was beautiful in an exciting, raw fashion. Pauline had been happy as a member of the chorus at the Mosaic Theatre. Happy until her fiancé discovered the theatre owners would never hire him as long as his "fiancée was also under their employ. Funny rules, these Americans had. Entanglements among employees and patrons were fine as long as they transpired _after_ one became a member of the staff, not before.

First he would for hours on end, dissolving into the coal smudged air, not returning to their small flat until the wee morning hours. Then, she'd caught him in the costume room with _two_ of the other dancers. And she thought ménage a tois' were only for the French.

After breaking their engagement, she could not afford the flat by herself and moved into the theatre dormitories. Still, Pauline's mind and soul would not release _him_. Eventually her despondency caused the management at the Mosaic to release her.

_Hells bells_, she thought. At the very least someone with her decent breeding, passable looks, and excellent schooling should claim a shop girl position, but no such luck. After one week of living and begging on the streets she'd met Talina, a tarty looking but kind girl who gave her a bite to eat. Talina then led Pauline to her lodgings in the infamous eighth ward, the heart of New York's red light district.

Like an automaton. That is how Pauline dealt with her new profession. Why not? Hadn't _his_ betrayal left her in an empty, soulless state? She made decent money laying on her back like a zombie and opening her legs for men who did not lie about their intentions.

Lucky for her she was attractive. That was Pauline's lure—long legs, honeyed locks, midnight blue eyes, a cupids bow mouth and skin still supple from lack of age or personal vice.

While the other girls were "sexperts" the former petite dancer knew nothing about how to pleasure a man other than batting her eyelashes. Being serviced by a pretty young thing was a monumental turn-on for many a man.

With a snort of irony, she dotted soft pink paint on her lips and pinched her cheeks, getting ready for the day's first John. Madame told her a new client, an Italian gentleman, had come to call on her ladies and requested someone who was "virginal and sweet," and Pauline fit the bill perfectly.

"The fellow's a right looker, too," said Madame Bonnefoy, pleased that one of her clients was not the usual affluent relic, patrolman on the take, or salty dock worker who'd saved his money for a roll with a "quality girl."

A triple rap knock on the door signaled that her first client had arrived.

"You may enter," she called in a coquettish English accent. The door clicked open then shut with haste and she imagined his fear at the thought of being caught in the act of visiting a whore house.

Adorned in a gold satin corset and stockings, a swath of tulle for a skirt, Pauline stood with her back to the door. This new man was instantly on her, brushing away wisps of hair from her neck. Lips sought, hands groped and he ground his crotch into her small, firm behind. She wanted to retch.

"My, you _are _a sweet little thing, aren't you? Just as your keeper said.—face me, don't be shy. I want to enjoy the view while I impale your little slit." His voice was gruff with need, yet cultured. Pauline knew that voice. She spun from his embrace to face him.

"God, save me!" she cried; her eyes wide with an expression of disbelieving fear.

His first instinct was to lunge at her. Recognition shadowed his handsome features and he smiled like a hungry weasel.

"Well, well now. I see, my darling, you have found gainful employment. What a delicious adventure to pay for something I once received so freely from you. Now that I have taken my place as manager of the theatre, I have plenty of money. An ironic turnabout wouldn't you say?"

The man who was once her gentle lover, the man she had thought to marry, grasped her wrists with a wicked chuckle. It was too much. Pauline crumpled onto her mattress.

oOo

"What—does all courtesy fly out the window once one steps foot in this country?" Erik paced the length of the parlour, his hands clasped tightly behind his back and scowled at Gabrielle.

"Maybe his transportation broke down—the horse threw a shoe or something like that. He'll be here, Erik. Finding his sister is too important to Paul." Gabrielle replied, hoping her calm rationale would soothe her peevish husband.

"Sit, have some tea," she said, well aware that patience was not Erik's strong suit. It didn't help that he was chomping at the bit to get back to the theatre. A few days back he'd groused about the theatre hiring a new manager of operations. "In the middle of a production—preposterous!—now I will have to break in yet another idiotic bean counter!" he had ranted after returning home from a long opera rehearsal.

Erik loathed sudden change nearly as much as he detested waiting.

He was prepared to huff off to his music room when the door chimes sounded. Gabrielle flashed him an 'I told you so' look, to which he replied with a noncommittal snort at the ceiling.

She stood to join her husband and hopefully add a touch of warmth to his cool indifference.

"Welcome, Paul. This is my husband, Monsieur Erik DuPuis," she greeted the forlorn Englishman with genuine affection.

"A pleasure, good monsieur," Erik bowed, slightly.

"No need for formality, Madame, Monsieur. I am indebted to you for your generous assistance." Paul addressed them both and reached to shake Erik's hand; a gesture Erik noticed American's were fond of—one he considered rather boorish.

"Do sit and join us for tea," Gabrielle offered as Mademoiselle Caruso hung up his hat and coat, returning to serve the trio.

"Thank you, I am famished as I often forget to eat lately," Paul said, accepting a cup of Earl Grey and a plate of finger sandwiches.

"Have you any word from your sister?" Gabrielle asked as Erik chose the room's largest chair and observed their exchange with rapt interest.

"I fear I've still heard nothing of my sister, Pauline. All I have is the lead that she—she may be under dubious employment in the eighth ward section of the city." He colored when he answered her query and glanced down at his plate.

"Then let us get to the business of composing a plan to find your dear sister," suggested Erik, not wishing to cause the man further embarrassment or waste more precious time.

- () -

**_It's great to see many of you back for this story. Thanks for the reviews._**

**_-Leesainthesky_**


	7. ch7 Madam and the Madman

**Sojourns**

**CH7 The Madame and the Madman**

New York's revolutionary new steam powered elevated railroad system, the el, was much smoother and quicker than a horse drawn conveyance. It could whisk you from East Twenty-First St. to the Bowery at a breezy forty miles per hour. And yet Erik preferred traveling by coach—private transportation for a private man.

Paul's large carriage rattled along the cobblestones, blending into the cacophony of clopping horse hooves, patrolmen's whistles, and street merchants hawking their wares.

The had a sound strategy: Gabrielle would move forward with her plans for the magazine article, scanning the shops of the eighth ward, interviewing any of the girls, madams and locals who might speak with her about what it was that brought them to their dubious personal choices. As her escort, Paul would brandish a photograph of his sister, inquiring if anyone had come across her. Disguised as a potential client, Erik's assignment was to visit a handful of brothels. Once inside, he would request a girl of Pauline's description. If none were available he'd move on to the next house full of willing ladies. Surley some progress could be made between the three of them.

The idea of Erik posing as a man on the prowl amused Gabrielle—not the "prowl" part, he was an expert in that area. It was the idea of Erik trolling for sex that put the trifling smile on her face for most of their ride. Puzzled by what may have humored his wife, he hoped whatever it was would bode well for him once they returned home.

"We shall park at the livery stable on Eighth, turn south, then part and cover the area from Canal St. to North River.

Erik kept flexing his hands inside his leather gloves. Not normally prone to nervousness, the idea of posing as a man seeking the company of women for hire caused him discomfort.

As a young man living in Persia he was once offered a harem girl—a gift whose single mission in life was to pleasure men. She belonged to Erik and yet she chose death over bedding a man whose face was more horrible than his reputation. That was the day he decided his hands would be his only lover. Twenty-five years later the slave girl's rejection still stung, but for the sake of the woman he loved and one he'd never met, Erik swore to follow through with his mission. Besides, these women were paid for sex, and some of the Johns found lurking around Parisian brothels were far more distasteful in hygiene and manner than his face.

Erik pursed his lips and nodded as he visually perused the streets. "Two hours, then we will meet back at the livery—agreed?" He glanced from Paul to Gabrielle.

"Three hours," said Gabrielle, holding her gloved hand against the sun's glare to meet his eyes.

"Three, whatever for?" Erik protested.

"We need three hours in case we are forced to wait around a business before someone decides we are worthy of their time and trust."

He studied her briefly. Erik was asserting a miniscule amount of authority over his headstrong wife by making her wait for his reply.

"Very well. In three hours we shall regroup at the livery. No less."

"Agreed," she replied. "That should give us ample time to cover a good deal of ground. Whatever we don't get to today, we can hit later in the week."

"In the event that my lovely wife does not give birth to one of her unique ideas and go off in an unforeseen direction," Erik said, turning to Paul.

"But since we have taken pains to orchestrate this outing to the very last movement, you would never entertain such an illogical idea, would you dear?" he asked, smiling knowingly at her.

Gabrielle simply stared at Erik as if she had no inkling what he was going on about.

"Of course not, as long as you don't take a liking to any of the merchandise along the way, darling," she quipped in response to his cheeky admonishment and gave him a quick buss on the lips before stepping out of the carriage and into the gritty New York sunlight.

The illumination served as a harsh spotlight revealing, in all its glory, the city's seediest citizens and dingiest shop fronts and row houses. This was not only where many of New York City's poor lived but also where pleasure-starved laborers, the criminal class and Gotham's upper echelon perused the streets seeking carnal entertainment in the dance halls or thrills not found between the legs of their domestically pious wives.

Paul winced. It wasn't possible. Could his sweet, talented and cultured little sister truly keeping quarters within this neighborhood of depravity? He preferred not to dwell on the possibilities, only to find her and soon. In turn, Erik and Gabrielle were unflustered by their surroundings. Living in 19th century France and, for Gabrielle, in 21st century America, very little shocked the cosmopolitan couple.

"May luck be with you both," Erik said kissing Gabrielle's hand. "And keep an eye on my bride, will you?" he addressed Paul.

"Indeed. Yes, and you, good Monsieur, Godspeed. Madame DuPuis, shall we?" Paul replied and, as any nineteenth-century gentleman would to a lady walking the mean streets of NYC, offered his arm to Gabrielle.

oOo

Adrenaline coursing through Pauline's shocked system urged her mouth into action. She released one singular scream so shrill it would have deafened a fish peddler's wife. Madame Bonnefoy came sprinting as fast as her varicose vein ridden legs allowed.

"What the blazes is going one in here?" she bellowed, losing her cultured accent and barged into the bedroom. There on the bed lay a crumpled and motionless Pauline. Madame Bonnefoy's gaze shot over to the young man standing behind the door. Client or not, no one was going to harm her girls!

"I did nothing to her, _nothing_. Never even touched her once!" he spat, his vehement denial suggesting guilt.

Madame Bonnefoy moved closer, narrowed her eyes and pushed her pudgy face up to his. "My girls don't scream and faint unless something is amiss. You did something and I know it."

"Woman, she is a whore and tried to steal from me," he shot back. "Obviously this urchin is feeling lazy today and did not wish to deliver what was promised."

Hands stuffed upon her ample hips, the Madame glowered at him.

He couldn't comprehend that this woman or any woman would have the nerve to take the word of a whore over his. He straightened. "Oh, right—I see your ploy. You mean to extort money from my pocket in every way possible!"

Madame Bonnefoy had seen many a shady character in her years and she was having none of this man's self-righteous bluster.

"You little puss brain, get out and never return to this district or I will see to it that _that_ never works for you again!" She indicated his manhood with a shake of her head.

"You bitch!" he growled and made for Madame Bonnefoy. His advance was short-lived when she pulled a small handgun from her bosom.

"Have it your way," she grinned, pulled back the trigger and took aim. 

The crazy woman was going to shoot him in his groin. His eyes moved swiftly from his prized package to the older woman's gleaming gun.

"Of all the brothels in New York, I stumble upon one harboring an insane asylum. Not only are you people immoral, but you are dangerous," He said under his breath, then made a hasty retreat for the exit.

Madame Bonnefoy snorted, "Immoral indeed. Obviously he's not consulted his mirror in a good while. Stupid ass—Violet, come quick with whiskey and a wet rag to Priscilla's room now!" she called out to her right-hand woman.

Brothel keeper though she was, Deidre Bonnefoy cared for her girls, made sure they were clean, visited the doctor regularly and were not abused by the clients.

Her assistant rushed in with a wet cloth in one hand and a shot of strong Kentucky Bourbon in the other.

"Sweet mother—she's not dead is she?" exclaimed the tall, painted woman.

Madame Bonnefoy leaned over Pauline and checked her pulse. "Thank god, no. She's only passed out. A dead girl is a hard case to explain to even the most gracious member of City Hall."

After a few light slaps on her face and a cool rag on her forehead, "Priscilla," as she was known to her sisters in vice, blinked.

"Is—is he gone?" she whispered, her lips trembling with fright.

"What did the filthy wop do to ya, dearie?" she asked looking the girl over for signs of abuse.

Pauline cringed at the use of the disparaging term, which Madame Bonnefoy took as a response to physical distress.

"I am unharmed, but that awful man—he threatened me with a knife," she lied. How would Pauline explain that the European gentleman's only crime was breaking her heart?

"We must alert patrolman Mingus of this crime," said Violet. "That'll teach him good."

"Indeed we shall," agreed Madame Bonnefoy. Several members of New York's finest were friends of Madam Bonnefoy's, offering protection for her unique brand of pampering. 

"Feeling better?" she asked.

"Um, yes, thank you," Pauline sputtered, taking another sip of the strong spirit.

"I am giving you the remainder of the day off to rest so you can be in tiptop shape for tomorrow," Bonnefoy declared, patting the girl on the hand.

Pauline smiled weakly, thankful for even one day without men.

The back doorbell rang signaling the arrival of a potential customer. All three women glanced in the direction of the rear of the house.

"Perhaps we've a customer, Violet."

Recognizing her cue, Madame Bonnefoy's assistant left the two women alone.

"Should you need anything, let me know…or Violet. I'll not have these high and mighty coxcombs abusing my girls."

"Yes mum," was all Pauline could muster. She was grateful. If she had to stoop low as to become a whore, at least she'd found a house with a somewhat benevolent manager.

- ()-

**If you're reading this fic. please review even if you have little to say or are simply lurking.Believe me, your input is appreciated.**

**Thanks**

**-Leesainthesky**


	8. Ch8 Desperately Seeking Pauline

**Updated and completed: Ch8 Desperately Seeking Pauline.**

Erik approached the house at 21 Canal Street. There was nothing remarkable about the large soot covered structure other than a small red letter box attached to the gate with the name "Mdm. Bonnefoy" stenciled upon it. As he glanced over his shoulder for a quick scan of the street, someone pushed past him. The contact triggered Erik's fighting instinct and he swirled around to confront the rude offender, but saw only the grey suited back of a man fleeing in the opposite direction.

Something about the man's gate and stature struck a cord in Erik. _I know few people in this city—it is any guess which one of my acquaintances patronize a whorehouse. Perhaps this atypical situation has rendered me overly_ _suspicious,_ he thought, shaking off the random feeling of déjà vu. More pressing matters demanded his focus—namely interrogating young prostitutes.

Erik strode through the narrow passage between houses to the rear entrance. Purple and gold crocuses dotted the sparse grass, lending a patchwork quilt quality to the unkempt area. A clothesline was strung across the fenced in yard with one end affixed to the trunk of an oak tree where a rope swing dangled from a high branch. It was an odd image of domesticity.

Erik ascended the small stoop leading up to the back door, affected the posture of privilege and pushed the ringer.

Waiting, he regarded the fingertips of his gloves and noticed one of the seams had unraveled. _Note to self; have these sent to the tailor post haste_. When the door opened and a woman nearly as tall as he appeared, he almost blanched in surprise... almost.

"Greetings, sir—are you good natured?" she inquired with a pleasant, easy smile.

"Indeed, Madame, I am most good natured," Erik replied, reciting the secret code for "_I'm looking to do business."_

"Then please, do come in." Violet moved aside allowing Erik entrance into a roomy and comfortable parlour. It amused him to think of how logical the brothel keeper was to have had what was normally the front room in a proper Victorian home relocated in the back.

"Have a seat and relax while I fetch Madame Bonnefoy." Violet began to leave, then paused. "You know, I do not recall seeing you here before. Are you new to our humble little house?"

"Why yes, I am, Madame," Erik smiled and removed his gloves. "A business acquaintance referred me to your fine establishment."

"Ah, splendid… we have a reputation for having the most accommodating ladies in the entire city of New York," she boasted, and turned on her heels to find the Madame.

Erik did not have to ponder what would lead young women to sell her body. He was well acquainted with desperation. Harsh rejection and abuse could cause any living thing to turn to the unimaginable. With society's unyielding attitude toward a woman's choice of occupations—becoming an old maid school teacher, governess or an overworked and poorly paid garment mill worker were hardly viable options. At least in a house of ill repute a woman could hold sway over a man while picking his pockets. Why, if a girl was lucky enough, she'd land in a house with a benevolent mistress.

"Bonjour and welcome to our house of creature comforts, Monsieur," trilled the perfume-powdered voice of Madame Bonnefoy as she swept into the parlour.

Erik steeled himself, stood, and bowed to the woman." Good day, Madame.

"A man of impeccable manners, I see. Sit, sit," she fluttered her hands at him.

"Violet tells me that, by your accent and fine manners you must hail from my native

France."

"What an astute creature, your Violet. I am indeed French and visiting America for a time. And here I discover you, a fellow Parisian, a jewel among the coal." The kiss Erik placed on the back of her hand caused Madame Bonnefoy to blush, an act he was sure must be a practiced trick of the trade.

"I was told that a man of my wealth and taste may find comfort for his loneliness at your fine establishment." Erik smiled broadly, charming her enough for her gaze to leave his mask temporarily.

"I am rather proud of my brand of hospitality and my exceptionally talented girls. Tell me, Monsieur, what sort of _Mademoiselle_ do you fancy?" she asked, setting her ample rump down on the opposite sofa and batting her eyelashes madly.

"There is a particular lady I was hoping to find available this afternoon."

"And just which one of our talented beauties would that be, Monsieur?" she smiled.

"A pretty young thing with golden hair, large blue eyes and a countenance of innocence—British, I believe. Her name escapes me but I have been told that she will heal my fierce longings," Erik smirked and winked at Madame Bonnefoy.

"Ah, yes! You speak of our dear Priscilla—a lovely creature. Unfortunately, she is dreadfully under the weather today," she pouted in sympathy to his misfortune, then brightened suddenly. "However, I do have under my employ many other fine ladies eager to entertain you."

_What_ _is it about this sudden rash of European males clamoring for the innocent and virginal type_? she pondered.

Erik's eyes turned hard and dark. _Ah, so she is here and this woman dares keep her from me!_ He repressed the intense urge to bound up, tower over the fat Madame and demand access to Paul's sister.

"I fear I am a man of particular tastes—no other girl will do. Forgive me for wasting your precious time, Madame Bonnefoy." He replaced his gloves and rose to leave.

She rose with him. "Monsieur, I assure you if you return tomorrow, Priscilla will be feeling better and prepared to serve you as though you are royalty. In fact, a discount is in order for your inconvenience." Madame hated to lose a paying customer and this man with a mask surely had something horrific to hide; if he were pleased, he might become a repeat customer.

What luck, Erik had stumbled upon the girl at his very first stop. He stared down his nose at the Madame. Returning was not in his plans, yet he would follow through on his promise to Paul and Gabrielle and come for the girl later.

"Make certain no one else has an appointment with her. I am prepared to pay generously for her company." To prove he was a man of his word, he awarded Madame Bonnefoy with a ten dollar bill, more than a quarter of a day's earnings for any one girl. "Until tomorrow," he said, once again taking her chubby hand to kiss it.

Madame grinned warmly and tucked the bill in her sleeve. "I assure you, Monsieur, she will be well prepared to provide you with a most pleasant afternoon."

"Eleven am, sharp."

"Eleven it is. Adieu, Monsieur."

"Adieu, Madame." Erik bowed at the whorehouse manager and left.

In the early morning hours, after the saloons and music halls had closed and the men had ample time to slake their drunken lusts, he would return for Pauline.

**oOo**

Having stomped over the uneven cobblestone and dirt streets of the eighth ward, Gabrielle and Paul were becoming weary and discouraged. Not only had they found no sign of Pauline, but few were anxious to their story to the forward young female writer from a local periodical.

"Damn it all," Gabrielle said only loudly enough for Paul to hear. He glanced around to see if anyone had noticed her coarse display, but said nothing. Her thoughts mirrored his own.

"Six brothels and two music halls and not one lead. Do these people have some sort of street snipe's code?" Paul wondered aloud.

"Maybe—look, we haven't checked the Downtown yet."

Paul sighed wearily and stopped to read Gabrielle's face. "Tell me you do not truly believe my sister is in that godforsaken place?" Paul looked horrified.

"So far we have nothing. People in low places are often the most willing to open up for a few pieces of paper," she reasoned, and placed a gently hand on his arm.

"Yes, yes, I suppose you are correct. Do you have the address on your map?"

She unfolded the wrinkled handwritten list from her reticule and shook it open. "It's only three blocks to the south on Vine. Follow me." Although New York City was markedly different from the city of her twentieth century escapades, many of the streets and landmarks were the same. Gabrielle was confident she could find the theatre.

And there it was, in it all of its shabby glory…one of the city's most notorious and popular dance halls—the Downtowner.

"It is already after four, the place ought to be waking from its slumber," she said, scanning the building's façade.

Paul gave the door a push, but it would not budge.

"Come on, it can't be closed. Try it again," Gabrielle urged a weary Paul.

This time he put his shoulder into it and the thick door groaned open.

"Not closed, just swollen," he said, gesturing for Gabrielle to go first.

The dance hall's smelled of old beer and tobacco smoke. Dust motes sparked across a slice of sunlight which trickled through a small window above the bar.

Their heels made hard noises on the floor planks as they ventured farther into the large room, rousing someone tapping kegs behind the bar.

An unshaven man with black hair and long sideburns rose up from behind the bar. He stood, wiping his hands on a greasy apron, and blinked at the sight of them. Two well dressed strangers in his bar at this time of day. James Flannery decided the pair must be lost. "Can I help you?" he offered.

"We're searching for my sister," said Paul, taking the initiative to retell the story of Pauline. He offered the man his picture of her.

Flannery examined the small sepia-toned photograph for a good long minute.

"Aye, I have. Seems the little miss was here for, oh, a week maybe two, only she called herself Priscilla. She could sing and dance all right, but her skills on the floor were wretched," he said with a brittle snort.

Paul and Gabrielle's eyes met briefly. _What does he mean,_ _"skills on the floor?"_

Flannery, sensing their confusion added, "Ya know, serving the customers. The young lass was forever spillin' drinks. On her last night here she sloshed an entire pitcher of ale on a particularly prized gentleman's lap. Well, the feller in question demanded she be fired immediately. What could I do? He's a powerful presence in this town. One must do what one must to keep the door open." He laughed louder this time.

"You sent her into the streets?" Paul squared his shoulders and stepped closer to the man, his hands balled into tight fists. It hadn't occurred to Gabrielle that he might be wound so tightly that he'd just as soon slug the guy as anything.

The bartender, sensing Paul's ire, puffed up his chest and glared back at him.

"Don't 'cha be entertaining the thought of blowing up at me, sir. I'll clean yer clock, I will."

Gabrielle stepped between the two men and slapped her palms on the sticky bar top. She smiled and leaned toward the barman, flashing him a saucy smile. "My friend, we didn't come to cause trouble. This gentleman here is only worried about his baby sister. Look, I have a hunch someone around here knows _something _and if that's so, then I am prepared to reward them _well_ for fruitful information," she said with enough honey in her voice to draw out every non-human vermin in the place.

"What sort a reward ye got in mind?" He grinned, giving his undivided attention to Gabrielle. He was so close to her she felt his hot breath on her cheeks. "This, for starters," she countered, withdrawing several neatly folded five dollar bank notes from her reticule.

"As a woman, I am not wise enough not to toy with a man like you, sir." She tapped a white gloved finger lightly on his forehead. "For what's up here, you'll get this right _here_," she finished, enticing him by wiggling the bills beneath his nose.

He captured her hand in his. "For a woman with witch's eyes, I'd do anything."

His comment caught her off guard, until she realized that even in the dim lighting he could make out her unusual eye coloring; one was green and one was brown.

Paul had been standing to her left and could not help himself. He stepped up for a close look _Amazing, why_ _didn't I_ _notice before_? he wondered.

A sweet smile crossed Gabrielle's lips, but inside she was thinking about "clocking" the Irish wretch.

He reached for the bills. "Uh, uh, uh," she sang, swiping them away from his greedy grasp. "Information first, money afterwards."

Paul stood behind her and watched their exchange with considerable patience.

"This Pauline, she was a sad little thing—some bloke stole her heart I'm guessing—seen a bit of that around this place…anyways, there were a few of the customers here who fancied her and they followed her to her new place of employment. She's at a brothel on Canal Street from what I hear." He straightened and removed the bills from Gabrielle's hand.

"That's it?" Gabrielle exclaimed incredulously. "Which brothel—I want the address!"

"Don't know it, dear lady."

"Now look here you unscrupulous—" Paul stepped forward, but she waved her hand at him to back down.

"Sorry, sweets, you know what I know."

"I can make life difficult for your establishment, you know. I am a respected member of the New York press," she warned with only a slight stretch of the truth.

"The papers? Look here, miss, I don't want no trouble here, but I don't know no more. What do yer want me do—pull something out of me arse?" He straightened and slammed the beer mug he'd been washing on the bar.

"Lord no, man. Here. If we draw a zero on Canal Street, then we'll be back. This time, I hope you'll be more hospitable. Maybe offer us a beer," she said, smacking the bar with the flat of her hand and making the man jump. "Come, Paul, let's blow this joint." Paul titled his head at them like a curious cocker spaniel. He'd never ever in his twenty-nine years met a woman like Gabrielle Thomassen—DuPuis. Had she not been very married to Erik, he might have made a go for her.

The duo departed the Downtowner and headed for Madame Bonnefoy's.

**oOo**

"Who was that man?" Pauline yanked Violet into her room and shut the door.

"Wha—?" Violet didn't know the little Englishwoman had such strength.

"That tall Frenchman with the eerie mask—I was on my way to fetch a pot of chamomile tea for my nerves, when I peeked into the parlour and saw him talking with Madame Bonnefoy. Tell me, why was he looking for me?"

"I—for your company I suppose. Do you know him? He's a deliciously dark sort. I wonder what he keeps behind that mask?" Violet's eyes softened. He was the sort of john one could almost enjoy having a sexual romp with.

"I haven't a clue who he is, Violet. Dear me—first the day's earlier trauma and now this?" Pauline wrung her hands and paced around the small bedroom.

"Do you think that horrible man who was here earlier sent him to do me harm?"

"Heavens no, he was nothing like the other fellow. Priscilla, you seem overwrought, dearie. Are you in some sort of trouble?"

"Trouble? Nothing of the sort, Violet." Pauline managed a sincere smile. The last thing she needed was for rumors to start flying about her. A girl could get bounced out on her rump if she was an arrest risk—as if prostitution wasn't reason enough!

Pauline imagined _he_ had sent the Frenchman to end her life. This morning when Madame had threatened her former fiancé the cold hard look of a murder flashed in his eyes.

"Forgive me; I am only being skittish because of the earlier ordeal. Allow me to rest if you will, Violet."

"Should you need anything, anything at all, do not hesitate to call for me. We are not terribly busy today."

"No, I have my tea. Thank you."

Relieved that the younger girl was settling down from her recent hysteria, Violet left Pauline alone to her thoughts.

Once the woman was gone, Pauline leapt from the bed and withdrew her travel bag from the small wardrobe in the corner, stuffed it with her belongings and meager savings, then hid it beneath the bed.

_I must leave. Yes, I shall sneak out after dark, when the house is at its busiest and no one will notice_, she decided, even though Pauline knew she would have to find temporary lodgings in a cheap a boarding house—at least long enough figure out her next move.

**oOo**

Four bells thundered form St. Luke-in-the-Fields. Gabrielle and Paul had made it back to the livery right on the hour and devoid of any side trips or extreme drama. And there was Erik leaning against the shadowed corner of the stables stone façade. To anyone, except for Gabrielle, he was a threatening sight, all tall, dark and brooding.

"Hey, look, I'm on time" she smiled, her reticule swinging from her outstretched arms as she strode toward her husband to give him a peck on the cheek.

Erik smiled self-consciously; sometimes her casual public displays of affection were disconcerting. How could he exude a sense of foreboding with this pretty copper-haired woman boldly kissing him in front of the entire city?

"No problems, I trust," he said, laying his hand lightly on the back of her cloak. He nodded at Paul.

"How did you fare?"

"Thanks to your wife's keen wit, we discovered that my sister may be working in a house on Canal Street," the other man replied.

"I've been there. Pauline is under the ample wings of a most protective Madame Bonnefoy. The woman claimed your sister was not feeling well and therefore unavailable for the day."

"Not well? My god, what other calamity could have befallen her?" Poor Paul could not hide his distress and reached out to steel himself against the building.

"Erik, you don't think she's—"

He shot Gabrielle one of his "please hush up" glances. Paul did not need to hear that his little sister might be in the family way.

"—gotten a cold, do you?" she finished.

"I've not a clue, darling."

"Dude," she whispered. Gabrielle was still prone to occasional slips of the twenty-first century tongue.

"Gabrielle, must you?" Erik hissed through his teeth and nudged her shoulder with his elbow.

Paul snapped out of his daze and regarded her as though she were a Martian. "I beg your pardon?" he said.

"_Mood_, I was thinking Pauline was in a bad mood—female matters and all," she rebounded quickly.

"A female malady, of course—nothing serious, nothing at all," Paul said with a shaky laugh, shrugging off the unspeakable scenarios encroaching on his thoughts. He removed his derby and began to worry the brim between his fingers.

"What shall be our next move then?"

Erik's expression grew serious as he looked Paul firmly in the eyes. "Our next move should be to return to Gramercy Park for supper. _I_ will return after midnight and rescue Pauline. Monsieur Sheffield, I _will not_ rest until I have returned your sister safely to you."

**- () -**

_**Thanks for of your input. I appreciate all of your reviews.**_

**_For those of you who enjoy the DuPuis stories, I have a page on my web site dedicated to them. Type in freewebs dot com and leesainthesky. Look for the Erik and Gabrielle tab to the left. Find be warned, there is a sans clothing pic. Of GB from "Mrs. Brown." I took the liberty of giving him a mask ;-)_**

_**-Leesainthesky**_


	9. ch9 Perils of Pauline

_**Do forgive me, dear readers, for posting only once per week . . . got a lot of irons in the fire these days. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I've added plenty of spice to warm up your cold winter nights!**_

**_Sojourns9 Perils of Pauline_**"Mama, Papa!" a barefoot Jon squealed with arms extended, racing toward his parents as fast as his chubby legs could carry him, a harried looking Mademoiselle Caruso trailing close behind. 

"I've endeavored to keep socks and shoes on him all day, but he simply will not have it," she explained apologetically.

Erik's amused smile was not the reaction she had hoped for. How could she insist on compliance from the child when his father encouraged such impish behavior?

He rested on his haunches and scooped the boy into his arms. "Erik Jonathan, have you been difficult for Madame Carrie today?"

"No, papa," he answered with a resounding shake of his head.

"Why have you shed your socks and shoes, son?"

Jon studied his papa's face before issuing an answer. "Don't like shoes!" He sat on his father's knee and wiggled his naked toes as proof.

Chuckling, Gabrielle removed her gloves and handed the trio's outer garments to the maid.

"Forgive us, Carrie. I know we overindulge our son's urge to express himself. I've found that with a toddler it's wise to pick your battles. I really don't mind if Jon chooses not to sport footwear in the house.

"But—Madame, he will catch a chill!" she warned.  
"I am always running around here without shoes and have yet to catch a cold from it. He'll be fine, really. We do appreciate your dedication to his well being, however."

How could she explain to the young nineteenth-century woman that one did not catch a cold by simply being cold? That knowledge was not made mainstream until the latter part of the twentieth century.

Carrie made an expression of controlled frustration. It was uncivilized enough for the mistress of the house to go about barefoot, but allowing the boy to mimic her behavior, why it was irresponsible!

Wisely, she moved on to the more agreeable subject of food. "Madame, I have an early supper warming in the oven. If you wish, I can serve it within the half hour. I assume I should set another place for Monsieur Sheffield? She nodded to Paul who had remained by the coat tree, observing this little slice of his new friend's life with quiet fascination. 

"Bless you, Carrie. We'll eat right away."

"Very good, Madame," she replied and walked away fussing in French.

Gabrielle turned to the men. "I am starved, aren't you?"

Jon interrupted their answers by leaping from his father's knee. "Come see my dragon!" he said, eyes dancing with excitement, then turned and scrambled back up the hall to the library where Erik had set up a child's desk for colouring and, when supervised, finger painting.

After much "oohing and ahhing" at the two-and-a-half year old's green, pink and black abstract, Carrie called them to the supper and took Jon to wash his hands."

oOo

Over a meal of spring vegetables, pigeons crapaudine accompanied by a fine young chablis, and almond soufflé for dessert, Erik formulated his plan for retrieving Pauline.

Gabrielle had been cutting carrots into bite-sized pieces for Jon, who sat next to her in his high chair. Acting like a pint sized gentleman, he'd spear a slice of carrot with his tiny fork, pop it into his mouth and chew with his mouth closed—at least most of the time. Whenever he abandoned his newly learned manners and began to talk with a mouth full of food, Erik would give him a disapproving glance and remind Jon to "chew, swallow, then speak." The toddler would obey his papa without question, or burst into mischievous giggles. At this point, his mother would take over—Erik did not have the heart to admonish this little boy who exuded happiness in the company of his parents.

"Paul," Gabrielle said turning her attention away from her son, "What I'm not clear on is why you can't simply go to Madame Bonnefoy's, ask for Pauline and encourage her to return home with you. Forgive me if I'm missing something here, but that seems, to me, the most uncomplicated approach," she asked. 

"Indeed, it would seem as such, but it isn't. The best way for me to describe the situation is this; when Pauline left England to live with her fiancé, the fiancé whose name I do not even know, mother and father were dreadfully disappointed. Mother, the Lady Sheffield, had expected her only daughter to marry the son of a friend, the Earl of Marylebone. My sister's disgrace, imagined or real, has kept her from seeking my assistance."

"Haven't you told her in your letters that you are her advocate?"

"Remember, Gabrielle, she stopped writing to me months ago."

"Ah, yes—do excuse my denseness, Paul. Traipsing around the eighth ward in heavy skirts can tire a girl out."

"It's been a long day for us all, Madame. The very last letter I did received from her was before Christmas. In it, she begged me not to sail for America and fetch her, as she did not intend to return to England . . . ever. I am her only sympathizer and even that, she does not suspect." 

Gabrielle took in the sadness etched on Paul's face. Poor man, how heart wrenching to care about his young sister enough to go against his family, a family so steeped in tradition that Pauline's s betrayal was grounds for abandonment.

She laid down her knife and fork and straightened in her chair.

"I mean no disrespect to your parents, but I cannot believe people still cling to such archaic modes of matchmaking. This idea that it is far better to marry within one's class than to marry for love is absurd! Women were not meant to be tools for barter between families 'I shall grant you my virgin daughter if you will keep her womb filled with heirs, therefore increasing our blood lines and our bloated vanity, provided you are titled, naturally.' Your poor sister, not that this rat she was with was a brilliant choice, but I deduce that she didn't love the Earl; why else would she be so anxious to run away?"

Erik merely watched his wife and sipped his wine. He agreed with her, but he wasn't eager to discuss Victorian values at the supper table.

"No, Pauline did not love the Earl—can't say I blame her. He is a stretch older than she, and not very pleasant, but wealthy—she would have been greatly cared for. To a liberal American woman married to a progressive artist, I imagine we Brits do seem rather dogmatic. Many of my contemporaries see the world differently than our ancestors—hopefully we will encourage others to think more freely, to abandon unfair divisions and prejudices of the classes . . . and of the sexes too, of course," he added with sincerity that Gabrielle did not doubt. 

"Here, here, my good man." Erik toasted Paul with his wine glass. "Tonight I will fetch your dear Pauline from her youthful mistakes and tomorrow morning she will sleep within the safely of one of our guest bedrooms."

"Beg my pardon, monsieur, but you cannot just go in and snatch my sister away. They have security in those places, or so I'm told." Paul was worried about Erik botching the operation and being discovered or the both of them killed in the process.

Gabrielle continued the juggling act of enjoying her meal and assisting Jon while listening to how her more-than-capable husband would answer Paul's concerns without insulting the man.

"Monsieur, I was once a master magician, an illusionist. I can appear and disappear into thin air before any one realizes I have come or gone. From time to time, I dally with the art of ventriloquism, too," he added without a modicum of modesty.

"Truly remarkable," Paul said, touching the napkin to his lips and laying it on the table.

"Give Paul a sample of your ability, Erik." Gabrielle knew Erik wasn't keen on command performances, yet she jumped at the chance to watch him display one of his many amazing talents. He caught her eye long enough to give her his silent thanks.

Not wishing to appear boorish in front of his guest or his son, he obliged his wife's request and when the pigeon carcass on Paul's plate began to sing What happiness, what delight, from Mozart's operetta, _The Abduction from the Seraglio_, Paul Sheffield knocked over his empty wine glass.

Jon, delighted with the jubilant aria, banged his pudgy hands against the high chair's wooden tray and bounced up and down, drawing a smile from his papa.

"I—I am nearly speechless. Astounding—how is it done?"

"With a great deal of practice," Erik answered.

"The big question is; how will you convince Pauline to go with you? His sister doesn't know you from Adam. Good as you may be at snatching women away from their bedrooms, killing her with fright wouldn't be prudent, dear," warned Gabrielle with a smile to temper her words.

"What do you suggest, darling?" he retorted with a flippant grin.

"I'm serious, sweetie. Listen, if I were a frightened and vulnerable young woman alone at night in my darkened bedroom, the hypnotic sound of a beautiful, haunting melody could have the power to render me senseless enough to go into the arms of a stranger. Yes, that could do it for me," she said, peering at him through her dark lashes—her insinuation well received by Erik.

"Truly? My dear, I never pegged you the sort of woman who could be wooed by trickery."

He knew—he'd tried it on her, but Gabrielle was much too strong-minded to fall under the Phantom's spell.

"When we met, I was already a worldly older woman. The song of a virile Svengali couldn't capture _my_ mind. But. . ."

Erik raised his eyebrow at her.

Gabrielle ignored his sassy look and continued.

". . . But a sweet young girl such as Mademoiselle Sheffield, well, a calming tune could be just the thing for her troubled mind—lull her into pacification. What are your thoughts, Paul?"

"Singing, you say? She does love Romeo's aria from _Romeo and Juliet, Ah! lève-toi, soleil_. But to hypnotize her into obedience—who has such power?"

"Hypnotists do," Erik replied.

"But who—?" Paul squinted at his host and gestured with his fork, "Ah, do not tell me you are, in addition to all else, a hypnotist." 

The more time he spent with the Dupuis', the more Paul realized they were not your typical couple, oh no, they were prosaic, almost _otherworldly_ in both mind and method. 

Self-satisfaction gleamed in Erik's eyes. "At your service, Monsieur," he said with a slight bow.

"You see, Paul, my husband is proficient in _many_ areas."

"How fortunate for you," he remarked.

"Sixty thrills a minute," she laughed.

Erik leaned forward to hold their attention, "This is my plan. I will approach the house on Canal Street at three am—usually a quiet hour even in that debauched area of town—sing beneath her window and, being certain she is pliable to suggestion, enter through the window and pluck your sister from her self-inflicted hell and bring her here to safety.

"Hell!" exclaimed Jon, striking the air with his fork.

Gabrielle shot Erik a dark look and turned back to her exuberant toddler. "Jon, we don't say 'hell.' It is a grown-up word and a bad one, too. Papa was being naughty."

"Spank papa?" he questioned in all seriousness.

"Should I, sweetie?"

"Yes! Papa bad, spank him," he said, scolding his father.

Erik's gaze drifted from Jon to Gabrielle, a smile of mischief dawning on his lips.

"Indeed, my son, your mother _should_ punish me for my naughtiness."

"Yeah," Jon agreed with a self-satisfied nod of his head.

"Woman, he's picked up more of your slang again—can you not temper yourself?" If she were going to correct him for using common language, then he would scrutinize hers as well.

Gabrielle rolled her eyes at Erik and turned her attention back to Jon, wiping a bit of food from his face. 

Caught up in the family's light banter, Paul found he was, for the first time in ages, laughing. It was short-lived, though. Erik quickly reverted to their original conversation and addressed Paul with a somber reassurance.

"As I was saying, I will rescue Pauline and I will not fail."

"Papa rescue Pauline?" In his sweet voice, Jon question questioned his mother. He had no idea who the damsel in distress was, but he sensed danger."

"Yes, dear, your papa is a very brave and good man; he will help Paul's sister be safe," she reassured the boy, and placed a kiss on top of his curly, dark head.  
"Why don't you catch some sleep before heading out, sweetheart? Remember, tomorrow is the day you meet the theatre's new operations manager. You'll want to be rested." Gabrielle was concerned about her husband. She did not doubt his abilities, but should something unforeseen happen to Erik, she would simply die of grief.Erik lay on their bed reading Chaucer. He shrugged and answered her concerns without looking from his book. "I could not care less what that bit of froth thinks of me and I am not the least bit tired. You know that I am at my prime in the dark hours.""True dat," she shot back, giving him a knowing look. "I'd like to go with you.""I know and the answer is no.""Why?"

"Gabrielle—""I can be a lookout for you."He lowered the book and gave her a serious look. "Although you are a capable woman, and a fabulous, I do not need two women to worry about tonight. Stay with our son. He'll need you should anything, which it will not, happen to me. You know I am right.""Your are," she sighed."Come here."She finished putting her clothes in the armoire and walked over to him.He patted the bed. "Join me.""You'll return before daybreak?""Yes. Do not fret, darling," he said, mindful of her cares. "What, me worry?" she rolled her eyes and bounced onto the bed with renewed exuberance, making contact with Erik's solid torso. He let her roll against his outstretched arm and dipped her backwards."Now then, what is this bit about my having no power over you?" He brushed his fingers across her cheek and down the length of her throat, smiling waggishly.

She peered up into his deep jade green eyes and giggled, "Did I say that?""Allow me to quote you from the supper table: "the song of a virile Svengali could never capture my mind.'""Enchanting though your vocal prowess may be, Erik, it is not your voice which renders me powerless."

He snorted and twisted his mouth into a wry grin, "You, Madame DuPuis, are _never_ powerless."Gabrielle yanked on the ribbon of her robe and threw open the flimsy garment.

"Precisely my point," he said before he attacked her naked breasts with hot, wet kisses.She tangled her fingers in his hair while he painted lazy circles around her nipples with his tongue. Suddenly, he sat up to look at her.

"You extraordinary woman, I love you madly.""Ditto . . . well, not the woman part—" she replied, hoisting her body upright to face her husband.Erik laughed into her mouth as she seized his lips for another kiss."One for the road?" she questioned when they finally surfaced for air."One _what_, my dove?" "Don't be coy."He unloosed a deep, throaty chuckle and she knew that he'd understood.He fell to his side and perched up on one elbow drinking in her body, curvy and golden in the candlelight. Erik knew Gabrielle had been self-conscious about her body—he supposed most women were, but in his eyes she was perfect. Noticing the adoration reflected in his eyes, she could not help but love him even more. Erik made her feel beautiful."So, you'd like a good toss before I leave for the whorehouse—a strategic move, my dear.""If I wear you out, you won't be tempted," she grinned. Erik played along with her ruse and frowned, "But if you wear me out, I'll have no strength left to rescue the girl. How will I fend off potential adversaries?""Charm them with your rope trick—it takes only finesse, not brute strength.""Have it all figured out, do you?" he snorted, discarding his waistcoat and freeing his shirt tails. "Conniving wench." "A compliment from the king of connivers," she retorted, helping him unbutton his shirt. He sucked in a breath when she drew her slender fingers across his pecs and circled his cocoa brown nipples."As for wearing you out, I plan on taking things nice and slow, so _very_ slow. . ." Her voice was smoky, confident; she smiled and pulled the silk cravat from his neck, letting it slip to the floor. "I'm quite fond of slow.""And fast and everything in between, too, as I recall.""True enough."By now Erik was nearly naked. Gabrielle drew a line around the obvious protrusion in his trousers and leaned in closer."Kiss me.""Oh I'll do more than kiss you, my dear.""Hmm . . . promise?"In one swift motion, she found herself pinned to the bed, her husband grinning wickedly."Promise."Gabrielle threaded her legs between his and hooked her heels around his calves, sealing their bodies together.He slid his rigid cock over her damp sex while kneading her breasts and kissing that special tender spot beneath her collar bone.Gabrielle grabbed his taut ass in her hands and massaged it through the fine wool."These have gotta go, Erik.""Damn right." He rose to his knees, stripped off the black trousers quickly and threw them to the floor. When it came to making love, the normally tidy Erik became careless with his fine clothing, letting them land where they may.Gabrielle lay back on the assortment of pillows and giggled at her husband's haste. Erik was so aroused his immense cock had turned dark purple and appeared as if it might burst before he could get it inside of her."I'd like a taste of that handsome specimen," she purred, and flicked her tongue over her lips.A sly sideways grin appeared at one corner of his mouth, his eyes twinkled topaz-green."Then you'd best open wide, Madame," he replied in a silky, lustful tone, crawling to her on his knees and touching his phallus to her lips. Gabrielle licked the pearly bead from the tip and sucked him into her mouth, eliciting a grateful groan from Erik.Cupping his balls lightly with one hand, she wrapped the other around the base of his cock as she suckled him—very slowly."Mmm," she purred against his shaft, letting him know how much she enjoyed his exotic flavor.With his head lolling from side to side, he begged her to go faster and she obliged.Knowing how his girth must be a challenge for her small mouth and being a breath away from filling her with his come, Erik grasped her hand gently. "Stop. Though I adore what you're doing, I want to please you, too."Eager for the same, she agreed and stroked the top of his head while he dined on her delicate flesh."Gabrielle au jus, my favorite dish," he murmured and lapped at her pink, juicy center until she cried for him to fuck her.Erik tucked his hands beneath her hips, lifting them slightly, and thrust into her. "Mon dieu," he gasped, "Every time is like the first with you my tight petite femme . . .""Wait! Grab a French letter from the bedside table . . . just in case you didn't impregnate me during your little S & M session the other evening." Erik sighed loudly—he hated having his lusts interrupted. "Gabrielle, is this really necessary?""_Erik_— she replied with a testy huff.He withdrew from her and snatched a sheath from the drawer. It took him less than twenty seconds to unwrap the thing and roll it over his still engorged rod. He reentered her with a vengeance.Gabrielle shivered with delight. There was nothing else on earth that felt as good as the bulbous head of his cock breaching her entrance. Erik pushed in firmly, deeply and slid out slowly, all the way to his tip. The leisurely pace was torturous pleasure and Gabrielle whimpered each time her re-entered her. To him, she was the velvet glove that enveloped his harshness. He loved the softness of her skin, the sweet musk of her essence, the way she always welcomed his affection. But tender sensuality gave way to raging need. When she moaned for more, he gave it to her—thrusting into her repeatedly with hard, desperate strokes.Clinging tightly to each other, they rode the tsunami cresting at the junction where their bodies had become one. Gabrielle's orgasm came suddenly, a sweet, hot light radiating throughout her entire body and clenching around Erik's throbbing prick.Submitting to his wife's climax, Erik's mouth slackened and his breathing became a series of staccato gasps. The sheer volume of his release threatened to break through the French letter's reservoir tip.

"Shit, Erik," Gabrielle exhaled against his cheek, "that was spectacular—blinding, in fact." "Um hmm," he mumbled back, his face buried in the soft nest of her hair.Against his own wishes, Erik fell into a quick, deep sleep. Gabrielle stretched her arm as far possible without disturbing him and fingered the clock into her grasp. She pulled out the alarm pin and wound the secondary stem to one am.

-()-

**Here's your cold drink of water**


	10. Ch10 Rescuing Damsels

**Hi there, I hope all of you dealing with this extreme cold weather are managing to keep warm! FYI: i have a aweb site dedicated to Erik DuPuis, check it out at (exclude the spaces here) www. freewebs . com / leesainthesky**

**Ch10 Rescuing Damsels**

Alarm clocks are a necessity for those prone to oversleeping, yet their mechanisms intrude upon our quietude. Twin brass bells trilled in Gabrielle's ear. She freed an arm from the tangle of warm bed covers and smacked at the clock's off switch. Within the hour, Erik had to leave for the seamy side of New York City to fetch Pauline Sheffield from a life of unnecessary despair.

Indeed, her husband was a clever man, she'd no doubt of that, but she still worried —even the former Phantom of the Opera was no match for a well-aimed firearm.

When she turned on the bedside lamp she found Erik already up. He was dressed all in black, yet his countenance was light as he paced the bedroom, mentally rehearsing tonight's deliverance before heading out into the night.

"Did you doze long?" she asked, tying the halves of her robe back together, swinging her legs around and reaching beneath the bed for her slippers.

At the warm lilt of her voice, Erik glanced up. "A little."

"Good."

"Evidently your love is more effective than any sleeping potion." He grinned with easy affection and strode to the bed for a kiss.

She grabbed his hands, folded them to her chest and nodded at the alarm clock. "I suppose you ought to get a move on."

"Yes, timing is of the utmost importance in this operation," he agreed.

"I have to make a trip down the hall," she said, breaking their embrace for a trip to the water closet. On her way back, she stopped at Jon's door to peek in on the boy and found Erik standing by his bedside.

She pussyfooted over to her husband's side and slipped her hands around his waist. "He's a beauty, isn't he?" she whispered

"The most beautiful sight in the entire world," he replied.

Together they watched their son dream.

"You know, Erik, we'll be shooing girls away from our front door in about, oh, ten years."

"Ten years? Heavens, Gabrielle, do girls truly bother with boys as that tender age?" More than a glint of fear shone on his face.

"Afraid so, and not just in my future-past century, either."

Erik grimaced. "But then, when I was a youth, girls ran _away_ from monsters, not toward them. It gladdens me that my son will have better luck."

Gabrielle knew Erik's lamentations were not a plea for pity—he was merely recounting a sad truth from his life as a young Frenchman.

"Don't sweat it, sweetheart, there are still a few years before we're faced with the perplexity of puberty," she said, squeezing his hand.

"May the Lord help us all," he sighed heavily and escorted his wife from the bedroom.

Gabrielle insisted Erik drink a cup of strong coffee before leaving.

"I'll carry the cup with me," he said.

"And drive the carriage? What if you have to stop to relieve yourself?"

"Gabrielle," Erik rolled his eyes heavenward. "I am a grown man, I will manage, _somehow_."

"All right, I'm a born worry wart when it comes to my loved ones."

"This from the woman whose cavalier attitude lands her in the saloons of Paris and the jails of America? Amusing little minx," he chuckled, finished the serving of coffee she'd fixed for him and gave her the empty mug.

Gabrielle set it in the sink and accompanied him to the back entrance.

"I shall return by daybreak at the latest," he reassured her.

"You'd better, buster."

"Else you'll interrogate every whorehouse madame this side of the Hudson—how I would pity them."

"Them and you, should you get yourself into a mess," she teased back."

Erik slung his cashmere cloak around his broad shoulders, revealing a glimpse of an assortment of weapons tucked into the garment's secret pockets.

"At least you're well armed," she said, indicating the outline of a pistol and the tip of his trusty Punjab lasso.

"Naturally, my dear. Now, go back to bed, stay warm and do not worry. I shall see you before sunrise. I love you."

"You too," she said. Draping her hands about his neck and standing on tip-toe, Gabrielle kissed her husband good-bye and watched him walk down the shadowy garden path to the carriage house

Erik eased his carriage into the tranquil lanes of Gramercy Park and headed toward the heart of the city. Soon the sleepy suburbs gave way to more urban landscapes as the sturdy gelding trotted beneath elevated train tracks, past darkened storefronts and into the seedy eighth ward.

During the short drive, he reflected on the prostitute's world._ Their's was a profession born of_ _needs; for a woman it was survival, for a man to quell a primal urge. _Victorian wives were for home and hearth, raw passion was found elsewhere.

_If one were trapped in an impossible situation or deemed an outcast and never given a chance to prove their worth, then one was permitted to do, by whatever means necessary, anything to make an agreeable life for oneself and to protect that life. _

Since his boyhood, Erik had noticed the inequity of the sexes. From the gypsies and the ladies of the Shah's harem, he learned how very intelligent women could be when they engaged their brains in all manner of clever manipulation. It was the only way they could have their needs met by those who lorded over them; the one thing that kept them chained to circumstances was their lack of physical strength.

Erik had both strength of mind _and_ body. It was through observing these women that he'd gleaned a plethora of knowledge. And tricks, _plenty _of tricks.

If it were not the dead of night, passers-by would have stared at him, not for his mask but the absurd grin on his face. He thought about how clever Gabrielle had been in acclimating herself to the _s_uperannuated ways of his century. Tonight he came to understand how alike he and his wife truly were.

The carriage horse breathed a hearty snort. Erik thought perhaps the gelding was commenting on his former life philosophy.

New York City; even at one-thirty in the morning, a great many people were still out. They paid no heed to the small nondescript black coach lumbering through the streets.

_Time to sharpen your wits_, _Erik_, he told himself when the scent of sea water, heavy coal smoke and rotting garbage taunted his nose. He didn't have to consult the street signs to know he'd breeched the boundaries' of the eighth ward.

Turning onto Canal Street, he searched the shapes and shadows, very aware of those whose demeanor said, "Go about your business or else."

At the entrance to the alley behind Canal Street, Erik stopped and eased his lengthy body from the driver's seat. Taking hold of the horse's halter he led the gelding to a tangle of forsythia bushes flanking the rear gate of Madam Bonnefoy's house and parked the carriage.

Because of the excellent coverage and close proximity to Pauline's window, spiriting her away should be a breeze. Erik shrank into the bushes and scrutinized his surroundings.

Music from Canal Street wound its way through the narrow passages between the houses. Very few voices mingled with the tune—at two am, entertaining at the whorehouse should have wound down considerably. Soon the last johns would leave for the comfort of their cozy homes and the girls would prepare for slumber. Beneath the crystalline moonlight, the backyard seemed nearly idyllic.

Every visible window of the brothel was lit but for Pauline's. Erik eyed the ribbon of juniper bushes bordering the house. Due to their prickly nature, they were an excellent deterrent to would be interlopers—good thing he'd worn sturdy clothing.

Sensing no intruders nearby, he moved with ghostly stealth through the gate and into the back yard, staying just beyond the boundary of the sidewalk. He would have to check out the front and side of the house before attempting the rescue. Meeting up with an unsuspecting john, girl or even a patrolman would not help his cause.

Certain no one was milling about; he retraced his steps and had reached the middle of the breezeway when he heard the creak of the rear door and footsteps approaching the side of the house. Erik looked around for a place to hide before ducking into a cavity above where the coal chute entered the basement.

An obviously inebriated a couple came into view. Giggling and necking, the jolly pair wobbled past Erik without any knowledge of his presence. He imagined they were on their way to an after hours pub or a bohemian salon. Bringing a working girl along as a date was not an uncommon practice.

Certain the coast was clear, he withdrew from the shadows and walked swiftly to the back of the house, but his progress was interrupted once more when another body made contact with his. A woman had flung herself violently into his arms nearly knocking the wind from his lungs. Erik held fast to the feminine form.

"Pardon me sir," began the young woman in a frail voice, but when she saw the mask concealing his face and the flash of recognition n his eyes, she inhaled for a hearty scream. She knew it—her former fiancé had sent the man to kill her!

Erik's clamped his hand over her mouth quickly suppressing her efforts. Surprise of all surprises, his keen night vision allowed him to see quite clearly that the woman who'd crashed into him was Pauline.

"Hush now, Mademoiselle Sheffield, I am not here to harm you," he soothed.

Pauline's eyes bulged with fear and she shook her head _no_.

"I am Erik, a friend of Paul's," he explained in a voice meant to calm,"I have come to return you safely to him. Come quickly, I have a carriage waiting beyond the gate."

_Thank god I am wearing my driving gloves rather than the_ _kid_, he thought when the delicate flower sank her teeth into the thick black leather covering his hand.

Erik sighed, who knew how long he had before someone encountered them?

"I regret that I must do this, my dear," he apologized, and with his free hand withdrew a small vial of chloroform, thumbed open the top and waved it beneath her nose. The girl wilted in his arms like a tulip in the desert. He tossed aside the vial and hoisted her over one shoulder, picked up a suitcase she'd been carrying and loaded her into the carriage.

With a short cluck of his tongue, he urged the gelding out of the alley and back into the mean streets of New York City.

Once they'd moved safely away from the eighth ward, Erik relaxed. He shot a glance at the unconscious woman in the seat behind him. She was a pretty girl with her honey blonde hair and delicate features. It made his blood boil to think of the monster who had abused the gentlewoman's trusting nature. _If only I hadn't had to use a chemical aid on her._

At least he'd been able to rescue her from the whorehouse and now she was on her way to the safety and warmth of the DuPuis town house where Pauline and Paul would be reunited.

Was that a tiny twinge of disappointment he felt at the uneventful nature of his mission? Erik no longer courted danger, yet he'd missed the satisfaction achieved from engaging in the Phantomy tricks of his past. For him, the rescue of Pauline had been _far_ too easy.

**_Easy eh? Don't worry--it's not all "Happy, happy joy, joy" for the DuPuis family._**


	11. Ch11 Mission Accomplie

**_My apologies for taking so long to post this—between a crappy cold and work, I wasn't able to indulge in this as much as I would have liked . . . I so hate it when life interferes with my fanfic!_**

_**-Leesainthesky**_

**Sojourns Ch11 Mission Accomplie **

Erik made a swift exit from the eighth ward via New York's backstreets. He dared not push his luck with Lady Fate. Acquiring Paul's sister from the whorehouse had been easy. Suppose someone had seen him leaving with her slung over his shoulder? The authorities would most certainly be combing the main arteries searching for his carriage.

Pauline slept quietly on the bench seat behind him, covered up with a dark woolen blanket. He'd given the girl a good snootful of chloroform. She would remain sleeping for many hours—ample time for Gabrielle to change her clothes and tuck her into bed.

Erik hoped she would make a speedy recovery from her traumatic ordeal—he'd never been comfortable having a house filled with strangers, no matter how pleasant their demeanor.

Bringing Carrie Caruso into the fold had been tricky enough. During her first year at DuPuis manor she'd discovered some of Gabrielle's belongings from the future and accused her of being a witch. Erik, through hypnotic suggestion, erased all memory of the incident from her mind. Yet after two years of employment, she had proven her loyalty to the DuPuis' in many ways.

Concerned for their son's well-being, Erik and Gabrielle made the decision to confide in her. Suppose Gabrielle was called back to the twenty-first century? She wanted her husband and son to have someone they could place their trust in, someone who understood their unique family heritage—someone inside of the household. Nadir Khan, although a cherished friend who knew Gabrielle's secret, rarely traveled and was in his twilight years. Carrie Caruso seemed the logical choice.

_Using the power of his voice, Erik lulled the young maid into a state of hypnosis while she slept and told her how he'd been on his way home from a performance at the Opera Garnier when he discovered a confused and disheveled Gabrielle lying in the Rue Scribe's gutter. As for the Phantom of the Paris Opera, Erik saw no reason to bother her with him. Wasn't the concept of time-traveling enough for her subconscious mind to absorb at once?_

Oh yes, when he was finished with her, Carrie would believe in time-travel, she would understand that Gabrielle could disappear at any moment, and she could never tell the family's secret to anyone—ever.

When Erik arrived at the rented town house in Gramercy Park, Gabrielle and Paul were in the kitchen drinking coffee. Upon seeing his sister for the first time in many months Paul nearly fainted from shock and relief.

"Oh god," he cried, "My poor, dear little sister . . . how very thin and pale she is. She is still . . . alive, isn't she sir?" he asked Erik, his eyes pleading for a positive answer.

"Very much so," Erik replied, thinking back on how she struggled to scream, then bit his glove. "I'm afraid it was necessary for me to subdue her with chloroform. She was not anxious to come with me . . . do forgive me."

Paul gave Erik a wan smile. "One must do what is necessary in difficult situations. I've no doubt you did what you deemed necessary, I am simply grateful to have her returned to me alive."

"After some rest and a good hot meal, she'll come around, don't worry," Gabrielle added, placing her hand gently on Paul's shoulder.

"Help me carry her to the guest room, if you would," Erik asked Paul. The woman was becoming dead weight in Erik's arms and he didn't know if he could make it up the stairs to the bedrooms without bumping the poor thing's head on the banister.

Paul obliged and together the men carried their precious cargo up to the yellow and white guestroom, leaving her to the care of Gabrielle.

With Pauline tucked safely into bed, Gabrielle headed back to bed as well, hoping Erik could catch a few winks before he began his exhausting day of rehearsals and the trauma of meeting the new operations manager. Paul remained perched in a chair outside of his sister's door, at the ready when she awoke.

Gabrielle was relieved to have Pauline safely under their wing, but she could not shake a feeling of unease. Although unnamable, it clung to her like a dark aura.

_Simple fatigue, that's all it is_, she told herself as she pulled back the bed sheet to join her snoring husband, whose head was barely visible beneath the covers.

_Darn it; guess I'll have to wait until tomorrow for all the juicy details._ Gabrielle also wondered what sort of resistance the gentle-lamb-gone-astray had made to force Erik's hand with the chloroform.

Daybreak was approximately two hours away. At seven-thirty, Jon would be up and roaring to greet the day. If his parents were still in bed, he would clamor to join them and his entrances were neither gentle nor quiet. His tiny bare feet would be heard slapping down the polished hardwood hallway, his hands fumbling to open their bedroom door, then he would scramble into their bed, digging bony elbows and knees into unforgiving adult body parts as he clambered get between his parents.

_Yep_, smiled Gabrielle, most of the couple's lovemaking took place after Jon's bedtime, or in stolen moments here and there. Erik's morning wood had to rise terribly early not to be thwarted by their toddler.

She wasn't going to get much sleep, that was for sure, but Erik's rehearsals didn't begin until three-thirty. He could go back to bed. _Lucky sucker_.

She wondered how he would get on with the new operations manager. Erik had grumbled about not being given much information on the man. "Did you get his name?" Gabrielle asked during a brief conversation on the subject.

"No, I couldn't be bothered with administrative chit-chat when I have an entire opera company in the throes of rehearsals!" he bellowed back.

She chuckled inwardly at his cavalier reply. How typical of Erik—getting his knickers in wad because he wasn't abreast of every decision being made at the Theatre, yet not bothering with the social triviality of conversation. Certainly the Mosaic's managers would have told him all he wanted to know about their new employee.

All he knew he'd heard from Carmine Antionelli, the orchestra's conductor. The maestro thought he'd seen the fellow in the manager's office before the hiring was announced. "He appeared to be of Italian descent," was Carmine's single observation.

**_I know, it's short and sweet; the next one will be soon. Props to Barb the beta for her expertise and time._**

_**-LITS**_


	12. Ch12 The Houseguest

**_Greetings, enjoy the long chapter!_**

**_Ch12 The House Guest_**

Paul kept a vigil outside of Pauline's bedroom door. He felt as if a two hundred pound barbell had been lifted from his slender shoulders—his sister was safe, Erik had brought her back to the civilized world. He wondered how he could ever repay the deed.

The sound of the jiggling door knob drew him out of his thoughts. He sprang from the chair in time to greet his sister's face, pale and confused, gazing at him from the other side of the open door.

"P-Paul, it's you—oh thank heavens!" she cried, accepting his embrace. Both siblings were exhausted from their trying ordeal and more than relieved to be reunited.

"Darling girl, I've been so worried about you." Paul choked back tears as he hugged Pauline tightly.

"Oh Paul," she sobbed pulling him into the bedroom and closing the door behind.

Why had she thought Paul would abandon her? Pauline supposed that can make a person conjure up all manner of foolish images. Her fiancé had done nothing to quell her misgivings either. _Your family will not be pleased to know that you've sold all of your fine jewelry, taken your allowance and run off with a man of the theatre. I've no doubt the will never forgive you your betrayal. But you do not require them when you have me,_ he told her on their voyage across the Atlantic.

A torrent of relief rushed over her like a cool mountain stream, quenching the fires of her fear when she woke-up alive and found her brother stationed by her bedroom door.

"Dear brother, I cannot believe it is you, in the flesh, but . . . how did I get _here_? The last I remember was being drugged by a man—a tall man who materialized out of the night. He had a mask; why, I thought he meant to kill me, yet, here I am, with you." She searched his eyes, grasping to comprehend how these pieces from her memory fit together to make a whole.

"Erik DuPuis is a friend who I sent to find you and bring you back to safety. His mask hides some sort of injury or deformity, nothing evil, I assure you. He and his wife live here and you are safe under their roof." He paused and looked at her as if he'd not heard all she had said correctly. "My word, why would anyone wish to harm you, sister?"

"A girl in my position meets a bevy of undesirable characters." She turned from Paul, crossed the room, and sat gently on the edge of the bed. Pauline laced her fingers together and stared at them.

"You shouldn't have bothered finding me; I have disgraced the family name. First I leave England with a man, a commoner who abandons me, then I am fired from the opera house. With no one to turn to and no skills other than which table setting to use, or how to curtsey and flirt, I have nothing else but my body to offer."

"Surely you could have found another theatre where you could dance?"

"I tried, but there are not many places where a serious dancer can find employment in America. Dance halls want serving wenches and I fear I am not very good at that," she said, dissolving into tears once more and covering her face with her hands. "Oh Paul, do not judge me harshly, I had no where else to turn but to begging in the streets like a cur, or to the brothels."

"Hush now, sister," he said, coming to her side to wrap an arm around her shoulders in hopes of comforting the distraught young woman.

"What I fail to comprehend is why you stopped writing," he said.

"Once I was released from the dance corps I had no permanent address. And . . ." she hiccupped, ". . . after I became a soiled woman, I figured no one in our family, not even you, dear brother, would wish ever to look upon my face again."

She lifted her head to meet Paul's gaze. In his eyes she saw all the kindness in the world and she knew how very wrong she had been about him. Paul was the one man she could depend on.

"I care not about the moral compass by which mother and father judge the world. Should you wish to marry a commoner and artist, then so be it. To toss you aside and deny you support and love is a travesty. And Pauline, they need never know about your ordeal if you do not want them to know. Your secrets are safe with me."

Paul smiled at his sister. At only twenty-two, she looked like a lost little girl, with her runny nose and face blotchy from crying. He handed her his handkerchief. As much as he itched to ask Pauline about the wretched man who was her fiancé, he refrained. _In time_, he told himself, _right now she needs a generous dose of loving care_.

"Let me tell you about the DuPuis'. They are a lovely couple. Erik is a composer and his wife, Gabrielle, is a writer and a mother. They have a delightful youngster named Jon who I'm sure you will adore, as you do love children. They have kindly offered us their hospitality until we decide to return to England," he explained.

"Stay, here?" she asked, pulling a lock of damp blonde hair away from her cheek and tucking it behind her ear.

"Of course. Gramercy Park is beautiful—a peaceful haven from the outside world. They shall be in the states for another four months. Don't you think that is ample time for you to recover from your unfortunate ordeal and make new plans?" he asked.

"I—I have no plans, Paul," she murmured sadly and looked back down at her hands.

"Sister dear," he said, taking one of her delicate hands in his and holding it. "You have me. And when Gabrielle DuPuis falls in love with you, you will have her, too. As for Monsieur DuPuis, behind his stony façade you will find a pragmatic individual with a noble heart. It was he who volunteered to rescue you from the brothel. You must forgive him for the chloroform."

Paul had a hard time picturing his petite sister having a go at Erik. He cocked his head to the side and regarded her curiously. "He said you resisted him."

"He frightened me with his foreboding height and that mask! I'd no idea what the man was about." She decided against divulging any details of the upsetting visit from her fiancé earlier that day and of how he may be seeking retribution for Madame Bonnefoy's less than polite actions toward his manhood. The less anyone knew about him, the better for all.

"You see, dear, the plan was for Erik to creep into the house, find you, and bring you here. Unfortunately you had other ideas. Where were you going in the dark with your suitcase?" he inquired with a slight frown.

"I was going to a friend's house to live . . . a girl I once worked with at a saloon," she lied.

"Well, you are here now and that is what matters most, my dear, precious sister." He kissed her forehead.

"I'll have the maid draw a bath and lay out clothes for you. When you are done you may join us for breakfast or have it brought here, whatever you prefer.

She smiled wearily. "I fear my clothes are wrinkled; they're in the suitcase there," she said, indicating the bag with a wave of her hand

"I shall send for Mademoiselle Caruso, the maid, to freshen them—or," he seemed to have hit upon an idea, "perhaps Madame DuPuis may have something for you to wear. She's a bit more—um—broad in the upper half, shall we say—but I am certain we will find a suitable garment for you." He opened the bedroom door to leave.

"Paul?" Pauline's face brightened and she smiled.

"Yes, sister?"

"Thank you," she said shyly.

"That is what brothers are for," he replied and closed the door.

oOo

"Gabrielle?" Erik reached for his wife and instead got a handful of blanket. He squinted at the alarm clock. It read 8:13. _She must be tending to Jon, damn; I simply must learn to awaken earlier_. He'd hoped to start his day with an intimate encounter with his warm and inviting wife.

_Just as well, with two strangers wandering loose in my home_. Erik was happy to have been of service to the Sheffield's—a young and innocent woman should never be exposed to the cruelties of the world as Pauline had. But he didn't warm to the idea of sharing his temporary home with people he really didn't know. Erik was, and always would be, a most secretive man.

He selected his ensemble for the day, then shut himself in the water closet for a long bath. Today's schedule held on it two distasteful activities: meeting the theatre's new operations manager and greeting his new house guest face to face—in the _daylight_. Not that he felt much guilt about snatching Pauline from the whorehouse in the middle of the night or using the chloroform—one does what one must—but he knew Gabrielle and quite possibly, Paul, would expect him to exercise the rules of proper decorum. Therefore he should apologize to Pauline.

Immersing his body into the steaming tub of water, Erik released a lengthy sigh and slid beneath the surface. When he emerged he heard Gabrielle on the other side of the door.

"Erik, if you're in the tub, may I come in?"

"If you must," he replied. Although he sounded put out, Erik welcomed the chance to be alone with her, especially when one of them was naked.

She entered and locked the door. "You know, if you leave that unlocked, Jon can come barreling in at anytime, Erik," she reminded him.

"Worse evils could fall upon the universe."

With hands on her hips she gave him a sharp look. "Yeah, buster, say that when we're in here giving each other a beauty treatment and little bit barges in . . . would you be so nonchalant then?"

"Yes, yes, I know." He waved off Gabrielle's concerns and leaned back to reveal the length of his body. "Join me?" he said, swishing his hands through the water around his legs.

"I haven't the time, but I will scrub your back," she said, pushing up the sleeves of her dress, picking up the boar bristle brush and slathering it with lavender soap.

"I'd rather you scrub something else," he grinned devilishly.

"Um hum. Lean forward, horn dog."

Instead, he pulled a wet hand from the water and drew his fingers down her décolletage, letting them come to rest on her breast.

"I'll wager that these are in need of a good washing; you don't wish to run about with dirty breasts, do you, darling?"

"Good lord, Erik," she giggled. "You're a trip. And you're getting my dress wet. Stop it or I'll leave."

"Aren't you dreadfully boring today?" he pouted, and scooted forward in the tub so she could get at his back.

Erik closed his eyes and slumped forward, momentarily content to enjoy his back massage.

When she finished, Gabrielle gave him a peck on the neck and rose to sit on a nearby stool.

"How is the girl?" he asked.

"Acting a bit sheepish; I suppose she's embarrassed having been found in a deplorable situation and with her brother knowing all about it. But she is warming up to the idea of staying here until she gets her life back on track. Sweet girl."

Erik rubbed shampoo into his hair. "Do you think that will take long?"

"I couldn't say, sweetheart. We'll be in the states for another four months and—ah yes; her presence makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it."

Erik continued to scrub his head. "Gabrielle, you know I'm not prone to entertaining much. I prefer keeping my home to myself, as you're well aware."

"I am," she replied. "I'll do my best to help the Sheffield's get on their way in a timely manner." She understood her husband's anxiety and didn't wish to cause him discomfort.

"Erik?"

"Yes, my dove."

"You've done a good thing. I am very proud of you."

He grunted and dove beneath the water to rinse his hair.

Gabrielle knew Erik had a difficult time believing he would ever live long enough to reap an adequate number of good deeds to cancel out all the bad ones from his past. Compliments on his musical talents, architectural abilities or even his keen intellect were willingly accepted by Erik DuPuis, compliments to his character were not. It was because of this Gabrielle often reminded him of his considerable worth as a man.

He sat up quickly and flung his head back, spraying water in every direction for three feet, barely missing Gabrielle.

"Missed me, Mr. Wise-butt."

Ignoring her, he braced his hands on the edge of the porcelain tub and rose to his full height. Erik's favorite physical attribute jutted straight out in all it's masculine glory. Gabrielle caught herself giving his phallus a brief, longing glance and snatched up the large bath sheet that he had draped over the end of the tub. "Cover up before you catch cold," she advised tersely as she threw it at him.

Erik chuckled. "Was it not you who one told Madame Roux that it was difficult to catch a cold from merely _being cold_?" he goaded her with a self-satisfied smile as he wrapped the sheet around his torso letting it unfold to just above his knees. His erection was still quite evident through the thick white cloth.

"I've got guests to check in on, a kid to feed, an article to slave over, and a woman to deprogram—see you at breakfast," she said, returning his ornery smile and slipped from the room.

oOo

Unsure of what the new houseguests' wanted for their morning meal, Carrie prepared a light breakfast of pastries coffee and tea, offering to fix an omelet for those requiring more hearty fare.

Gabrielle had already fed Jon and taken him to wash the remnants of his breakfast from his face, hands, and hair when the siblings came to breakfast. Assuming the Lord of the household would soon appear Pauline chose the place setting farthest away from the head of the table. There wouldn't be enough distance between her abductor her even if she climbed out the window and finished eating in the hydrangea bushes.

"Ah here she is, the lady of the house," Paul announced, in a tone much more cheerful that what Gabrielle was used to hearing from him. Being the courteous sort, he rose from the table and pulled out her chair.

She made note of Pauline, dressed in a pale yellow day dress with her hair swept up into a simple bun. With the exception for the circles under her eyes and a few missing pounds, she looked fairly healthy.

"Good day to you both," she said, greeting her house guests with a smile. "Now that Jon's preoccupied with something else, I figured I'd best return and eat something now, before I get too involved in the day, forget about food and can't concentrate on my work from all the grumbling going on in my tummy." Gabrielle laughed and rolled her eyes as if this were a normal occurrence in her life. She flipped her napkin into her lap and reached for the basket of cheese croissants and the butter. "Oh, I need coffee, too." Paul passed her the carafe, and the creamer and sugar.

"So Pauline, have you had enough to eat? If not, I can have Carrie whip you up something else; a favorite dish perhaps?"

Pauline, keeping he gaze low, replied no . . . she was fine.

Gabrielle smiled warmly at her. "Now you are a welcomed guest here, as is your brother. Do not feel strangely if you need to ask for anything at all, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I prefer you call me Gabrielle. We're all rather informal around here, well except for my husband. He seems a stoic figure, but he's really a prankster and he has a good heart. Just don't let on that you know about it." The last part was whispered across the table, as though telling a closely guarded secret.

"Yes—Gabrielle—I certainly won't," the young woman, said smiling shyly and looked up at the pretty, copper-haired woman.

"I was telling Pauline how fortunate we were to find her so quickly in our search."

"I feared my former fiancé had come to do me harm," she divulged with a frown.

"Oh Pauline, dear, I can't imagine you ever doing anything that would make a man want to hurt you. Forgive me for knowing some of the intimate details of your life, but as I hear it, this ass of a man left you high and dry _and_ in a foreign country! If it had been me, he'd be the one watching his back," Gabrielle added with conviction, putting her coffee cup down on a bit too hard and sloshing a good deal of coffee into the saucer. "Honey, there is nothing you could do to give a man just cause for murder. Who is this charlatan anyway?"

"She will not tell," Paul interjected.

"For god's sake why not?"

Pauline lowered her gaze once more. "He's . . . I no longer wish to think about him, to acknowledge his influence on my life. If I do not speak of him again, then I will be better for having done so," she replied and Gabrielle couldn't disagree with her school-girl logic.

"Very well, I won't press you. And neither will Paul," Gabrielle said, glancing at him.

"But for the sake of your honor I think it imperative---" he began to protest but was quickly silenced by a stern look from his hostess.

Gabrielle really wanted to know who the jerk-off was so she could plead with Erik to find him, take him out in the country, blindfold the fool and tie him to a big oak tree so she and Pauline could do unspeakable things to his privates—things the man would _not_ enjoy. Pauline needed more time to sort out the details of her young life. At the moment her behavior was pleasantly polite, but behind the young Englishwoman's sterling manners laid weary suspicion.

Their adult conversation was interrupted when the two DuPuis men entered the breakfast nook singing a lively version of _Non Siate Ritrosi_, Guglielmo's aria from _Così fan tutte_. Jon, sitting on his father's shoulders, tried valiantly to keep up with the Italian phrases, which translated into English as:

Don't be bashful, charming little eyes;  
Send two flashes of love for a moment over here.  
Make us happy, love with us,  
And we will make you very happy also.

All eyes turned to father and son and a few jaws dropped as well. _Cosi_ had not seen the light of too many stages in the nineteenth century as it was regarded as being quite indecent.

Pauline observed the statuesque Erik DuPuis with perplexed curiosity. _Could this be the man who, only hours ago, snatched her from the backyard of Madame Bonnefoy's establishment_? She wondered silently.

Gabrielle laughed at her men and warned Erik against teaching the child the aria. "I know the piece is one of your favorites, Erik, but I do not want our son banished from his playmates' houses for something deemed unsuitable."

"My word, I should hope not," agreed Paul, stifling a laugh.

"Bah, he's but a boy. And there is nothing obscene about the tune, Gabrielle," Erik scoffed, then squatted to release the toddler from his perch. Jon began to wriggle and protest loudly.

"See Jon, you must bow to your adoring audience, which you cannot do if you're on papa's shoulders," Erik reasoned with the toddler and the boy scrambled to the floor and bowed dramatically, right, left and center to his audience of three while Erik took the opportunity to claim his place at the table.

As if sensing his presence, Carrie entered the breakfast nook carrying a fresh pot of coffee and a fresh basket of croissants.

"Good day, monsieur . . . I can prepare you eggs or an omelet if you'd like," she said, setting the pastries before him and pouring coffee.

"I'm quite all right with these, Carrie," he answered, helping himself to a hot croissant and an ample dollop of fresh butter."

"Carrie, we're finished, except for Erik, and I can get him anything else he may need. Would you mind getting Jon dressed for the day? I'm afraid I've been a bit lazy and allowed him to run about in his stocking feet and jammies," said Gabrielle. She had already fed the boy and wanted time to speak with the Sheffield's.

"Oui, Madame," Carrie smiled. "Come here you petite rascal, your mama wants you looking like a proper gentleman." She smiled and held her hand out for Jon to grasp.

He shook his head 'no', dark curls bobbing from side to side. "Erik-Jonathan, do as you are told," his father commanded, giving him the parental Evil Eye. The boy quickly obeyed, taking Carrie's hand and allowing the maid to lead him upstairs to his bedroom.

"Lively little fellow that one," Paul remarked, smiling at Erik who shook his head.

"Indeed, and most headstrong, much like his mother," he said with obvious affection.

"Hello?" Gabrielle shot back at her husband. "I believe it was _you_ who caused Merriam-Webster to print your name beneath 'headstrong' in the dictionary."

Having no retort worthy of his intelligence, Erik made a droll face at his smug wife, then cleared his throat and addressed Pauline. "Good day, Mademoiselle Sheffield, I bid you welcome to our home. I do apologize for my rather rude abduction; please know it is not something I am in the habit of doing."

Erik's exchange with the toddler did much to chase away some of Pauline's internal butterflies, helping her find the voice to give him a straightforward answer. "Well, you did indeed frighten me as I had no idea as to who you were," she replied.

"Erik, she thought you'd been sent to harm her," Gabrielle added, downing the remainder of her coffee.

He scowled. Having someone think of him as a monster resurrected the pang of a tender wound not totally healed.

"She thought her ex-fiancé had sent you to get her out of the picture for some inexplicable reason," Gabrielle explained.

"Good heavens, should he touch a golden hair on your head, I will skewer him!" Erik's eyes blazed fire and in his voice was quiet thunder. Gabrielle reached beneath the table and gave his knee a squeeze that said _not now_.

Pauline started at his short outburst of vehement indignation, but relaxed when the dark clouds on Erik's face receded and he became the charming host once more.

"Dear Mademoiselle, I made an oath to your brother that I would return you to him safe and sound. And so you are here with us. Whatever you need or desire, you must ask it of us. We, all of us," he looked around the table, "are at your disposal."

Pauline blushed and glanced up at Erik through her lashes. "Thank you kindly, Monsieur DuPuis. I do not want to be a bother ---"

"Being of assistance to a gentlewoman is no bother," he interrupted her self-depreciating speech. Even though Erik did not relish having long term guests beneath his feet, he could not deny this fresh flower of a girl respite from her arduous ordeal. Of all things Erik was or had been, he was always a gentleman when it came to the women.

"You, mademoiselle, will stay here until we leave for France or until you feel well enough to leave us." He refrained from explaining to her how she would become Gabrielle's little project in accordance to her research of how to help the Ladies of the Evening and their children forge a better life.

After more coffee and benign chit-chat, Paul excused himself from the table.

"I must take my leave of you lovely ladies—I've a stack of correspondence on my desk to rifle through."

He took his sister's hand and gazed at her for what had to be the third time since Gabrielle had seen them together. "Rest, dear. You're in excellent company here." He smiled and nodded at Gabrielle then back at Pauline.

"I hope you'll return for supper. I'm cooking tonight and it's chocolate hazelnut torte for dessert," their hostess said, enticing the Englishman with the promise of her gourmet cuisine.

"If not sooner." He bent toward his sister's ear. "Madame DuPuis is an excellent cook."

After Paul left Gabrielle noticed Pauline giving her a quizzical look.

"What is it, dear?" she asked.

"You are a woman of means, you have a maid," Pauline said.

"Yes, but we think of Carrie as more of a friendly helper than a servant."

"Then why do you take it upon yourself to handle the cooking duties?" Pauline was flummoxed.

"Oh, that," Gabrielle laughed lightly and poured more coffee into her cup. "When I first came to DuPuis manor I cooked for Erik. Gourmet cuisine is a specialty of mine and I enjoy preparing meals for others."

"And I enjoy her cooking," Erik added, smiling in her direction and giving a pat to his belly.

The ladies laughed at his rare humor. "I cook three times a week if I can. It's not that Mademoiselle Caruso isn't more than adequate, but I try to please my husband," Gabrielle explained.

"Once in a great while," Erik added in a playful manner.

"Madame, Mademoiselle, I too must take my leave of you. I have a dizzying afternoon of opera rehearsals ahead of me—_La Femme du Norde_ opens in a mere three weeks, and then there is the business of the new operations manager. Do excuse me," he said, standing and bowing to the women. Erik kissed his wife on the cheek and retreated to the music room to gather his portfolio.

Pauline had grown deathly pale, her eyes, enormous blue saucers. "Your husband is the composer of the new opera at the Mosaic?" she asked in a tiny, desperate voice.

"Yes, that's why we came to the States," Gabrielle answered; then it hit her: Paul said something about Pauline's stateside dancing career beginning and ending at the Mosaic theatre before she struck out for life on the mean streets of NYC.

"Oh, dear, you used to work there didn't you? I am so sorry. Hey, there are plenty of other opera houses dying to employ a French-trained ballerina," she said, leaning over to the young woman and patting her hand lightly.

"I fear I have no more of the dancing spirit left in me," Pauline replied sadly.

_Poor thing_, Gabrielle thought.

"It's totally unfair that a woman should have to depend on a man or the path of the wind to survive and thrive in this day and age. Pauline, during your stay here, I vow to help you not only get back on your feet, as they say, but to regain your self-esteem."

"My self-esteem?" she asked, confused.

"You know, your sense of self-worth. There is much more to being a woman than marrying well. Your certainly are a pretty young woman, plus you have good breeding and all that. True, there are unfortunate limits put on a woman today, but there are ways you can shine without standing in the glow of some man. Do you understand?"

Most of Pauline's life she had been schooled in the art of entertaining, how to play the piano, how to throw a grand party, how to behave in polite society and most of all, how to be a proper wife. Gracious servitude was what one was for if one were female. This idea of _self _was something altogether foreign and enticing to her.

"I—well, not really, Gabrielle; but I am game to learn," she said with something that could be described as shy expectancy.

"Splendid!" Gabrielle squeezed her hand and smiled a radiantly enthusiastic smile at Pauline. When she was done with her, the downtrodden young woman would never let another man take advantage of her gentle nature again!

-( )-

**_I hope you enjoyed this chapter. Send in a review and I'll get another chapter up by the weekend (hopefully)._**

_**-Leesainthesky**_

_They brought out the first Merriam-Webster unabridged in 1847 and revised it in 1864. In 1890 they published the First International, and in 1898 the First Collegiate was issued. Since then, the International has gone through three editions and the Collegiate through eight. The G. & C. Merriam Company, still based in Springfield, is now owned by Encyclopedia Britannica._


	13. Ch13 The Italian

Ch13 The Italian

Pauline languished in the guest room for most of her day, sleeping and licking her wounds. And ruminating about how out of sorts her life had become. One moment she was a fresh young debutant and a classically trained dancer, the next, a bowery whore, all within the span of five months.

_I am a stupid girl; simple and stupid—definitely not a girl deserving of the DuPuis' kindness or of Paul's forgiveness_, were the thoughts she aimed at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Had it belonged to her, she'd have thrown something at it and shattered her image.

An hour earlier, Gabrielle had suggested a walk in the garden, a dreadful proposition as she was not up to a pleasant tête-à-tête with the modern French-American woman. However, rudeness was not a part of her upbringing. Pauline dutifully stuffed her size five-foot self into a pair of walking shoes, threw her cloak about her slender shoulders and walked to the study where the lady of the house was busy writing.

"Madame—forgive me—Gabrielle, do you still wish to walk this afternoon?" she asked from the doorway.

Gabrielle replaced her pen in its holder and pinched the bridge of her nose. "If you're up for it. I need the break and the fresh air can only do the both of us some good," she replied, swinging her legs from beneath the heavy oak desk.

She did a quick study of her latest guest; at twenty-two, Pauline seemed very young and innocent. What a horrific ordeal she must have endured, having the man she loved turn into an evil entity, her parents disowning her, and resorting to turning tricks to survive. Gabrielle was the type of female who reserved sex for making love not earning her keep. The absolute choice of selling one's body to any creep with enough cash or starving to death gave her a case of the "icy prickles".

Gabrielle stood up and smiled. "Well, let's do it then, follow me." She walked to the foot of the stairs and called for Jon to join them. The toddler thumped down the stairs backwards on his knees. When he reached the bottom, he sprang up and did a little dance. "Go feed birdies?" he asked, as though the prospect of tossing day-old bread chunks was the grandest activity of his day.

"If you like; go see Carrie for the bread and wait for me, okay Jon?" She knelt down for eye to eye contact with her son.

"Um hum," he mumbled with a vehement nod of his head.

"How about saying 'Oui mama'?" Gabrielle countered.

"Oui, mama," he parroted his mother and waited for her approval.

"Merci," she said, kissing him on his cheek. "Get your bread from Carrie, now."

Gabrielle watched her exuberant little boy run toward the kitchen with arms flailing calling out for "Arrie". She shook her head and glanced at Pauline. "Jon is a bright boy. Erik and I want him to become adept at speaking both French and English. While we're in America we mostly use English, but pepper our conversations with his native language," she explained.

"He seems a good little fellow. You are very lucky indeed," she commented wistfully.

"He is . . . most days," she answered thinking back on how her job as a television reporter once seemed daunting, but in truth was nothing compared to motherhood.

The women walked to the back of the house and found Jon waited for his mother at the door to the mud room where a selection of hats and jacket hung. Due to the blustery spring breeze blowing over the Island of Manhattan, Gabrielle coaxed him into a light corduroy jacket before she unleashed him into the back yard. He scampered off, chasing robins over the high stone fence, which he regarded as jolly good fun.

The women chatted mainly about flowers and the weather. Before long, Gabrielle had gained Pauline's trust enough for her to peel off a layer of her closely guarded veneer. It was then that Gabrielle began her slow voyage into the Englishwoman's past.

Antonio Vincenzo strolled through the backstage area of the Mosaic Theatre. It wasn't the Opera Garnier, but it was a lovely little house and would suit his purposes nicely. He felt fortunate that his maker had given him charm and looks—the reason he was able to snare that little noble woman, Pauline Sheffield. The pretty blonde gave him her savings _and_ her virginity; a means and an enormously pleasurable way to cross the Atlantic for sure. He chuckled out loud, thinking about her tight and willing tunnel, which he so greedily filled night after night once he'd made her his fiancée. Wasn't it a pity he had to let her go? Alas, the Mosaic opera house, where she danced and where he hoped to work, had a stringent policy of not hiring couples. When he broke their engagement the dear was so distraught that she turned to prostitution.

For an instant, Antonio Vincenzo felt a twinge of pity for his former betrothed, but she'd had a grand life hadn't she? Spoiled little princess. Was it his fault the little thing was so inexperienced with men that she didn't know when one was pulling the wool over her innocent blue eyes?

_Pauline Sheffield is inconsequential_, he reminded himself. _I have a score to settle and before the summer roses have it will be done_. He cracked a crooked smile and opened the door to the opera manager's office.

_Perhaps I should hire a coachman as my wife often suggests … it's not as if I do not have the funds_, Erik told himself as he paid the cabbie. Because he hadn't left ample time for preparing his carriage, he'd had to partake of public transportation to make it to the Mosaic on time for afternoon rehearsals.

After paying the driver, Erik turned to make his way up the steps leading to the front of the theatre, his long legs gobbling up the distance between the street and the ornate double doors. At the top he paused before entering to make certain each strand of his hairpiece was in place. As he had done for most of the rehearsals, Erik chose not to wear his mask; he didn't give a damn if the new Operation's manager liked his face or not. That was not his problem.

He burst through the heavy doors into a smallish entry hall. To his left was the manager's office, to the right, a hallway leading to the boxes and beyond that a door giving access to the back stage area. Erik started for the middle doors of the auditorium when Mr. Appleton opened his office door.

"Oh, good, it is you Monsieur DuPuis, do come in and meet our new operation's manager. You should get on splendidly as he's spent ample time in Paris and I imagine you'll have much to talk about," he said in his clipped eastern accent. He was priming the ambiguous DuPuis to be pleasant.

_I've no time for this inanity_, Erik thought, clenching his jaw and eyeing Appleton with a steely jade glare that clearly said "must I".

Erik swept into the office with the presence of a king. Once inside, his brain and his body went on high alert. Before him in a leather wingback chair sat a man wearing a black frock coat with grey pants and a small black bow tie---the latest style---with his hair slicked tightly against his scalp; in his lap he held a top hat.

"Ah, Signore Vincenzo. I thought you'd disappeared from the planet. But here you are, back in America and working at my opera house; how—convenient," he said tightly.

"I gather you two are acquainted?" said Appleton cheerfully. He was immensely relieved to find they had met before, it meant less time explaining the two odd men to one another.

"Indeed, Monsieur DuPuis' _La Femme _enjoyed a dazzling opening and a fruitful run while I managed the Lyric Opera House in Paris." He turned his attention to Erik. "When I heard you and your lovely wife were stateside and you were staging one of your operas at the very house where I hoped to find gainful employment, I was delighted," Vincenzo said smoothly, rising from his seat and offering his empty hand to Erik.

"How very, _American_ of you," Erik quipped, showing a flash of white teeth. He clasped the man's hand, then swiftly dispensing with the decidedly un-continental pleasantry.

Appleton and the Italian were accustomed to being nonplused by Erik's sardonic attitude.

"What good fortune for the Mosaic that you are both here at very same time! I look forward to a splendid opening and a successful box office with the two of you under contract with us."

The managing director was so excited at having the two men together under his gilded roof that Erik thought the man might soil himself. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth at the idea.

"Yes, well, I returned to my home country when _La Femme du Nord _closed in England. When I heard of its impending run here, well I just knew I had to check in on you, my friend. And what do you know; Signore Appleton had an opening for someone with my skills while I was seeking such a position." Vincenzo enthused, detailing his good fortune with aplomb.

"Gentleman, please excuse me, but I have a cast of many awaiting my appearance for rehearsal." Erik bowed politely and made to leave.

"Monsieur, perhaps you and Madame DuPuis would join my wife and I for supper tomorrow evening; naturally you are invited as well, Vincenzo," he said, nodding to the Italian.

"I shall be delighted, sir, and what a monumental pleasure it will be to see Gabrielle again, Monsieur." He directed his comment to Erik, who had paused in mid-exit from the manager's office and was becoming quite testy at being detained.

"I haven't the time, I fear. My wife has houseguests and a small child to tend to. You will forgive my absence," he replied. Erik was a hair's breath away from strangling Vincenzo for mentions his wife by her first name as though they two were old friends.

"Nonsense, your guests are also invited and your son, too. He can play with my daughter, Vanessa; she's barely five months older than he, and nanny Milby will have the children occupied in their playroom so there will be no childish interruptions, if you know what I mean." He winked at Erik as if conspiring on some grand adult conspiracy.

Erik glowered at Appleton.

"Do not misunderstand me now, I love my daughter, but she can be the little pest—thank God childrearing is woman's work, eh?" He actually slapped Erik on his back.

Erik bristled. He closed his eyes and counted to five. When he opened them he looked directly at the Manager.

"I find helping my wife raise Jonathan is a joy. A child needs his father and mother if he is to become a well rounded individual," Erik said with conviction.

Sensing that he had insulted the composer, Appleton cleared his throat and smiled up at Erik. "Such a forward thinking chap you are, DuPuis, and you may indeed be onto something there about children," he laughed. "But I simply will not take 'no' for an answer to supper. My wife Millicent would be disappointed if she knew I'd invited the elegant Monsieur DuPuis and then he declined the initiation!"

The man's tone was light, but Erik knew he was not teasing. Dear lord how he hated stuffy events with these people, but if he did not accept the invitation, Appleton would dog Erik until he either gave in or was forced to kill him. _Theatre managers are incredibly irksome of creatures _. . .  
"I will speak to my dear wife this evening. Please understand, sir, I make no promises as I am not her keeper. Good day, gentlemen, should you require me, I'll be at stage right." Erik made a hasty bow and dashed to the front of the theatre.

Appleton tired to conjure in his mind what sort of woman this Gabrielle must be to have an imperious figure like Erik DuPuis so thoroughly henpecked. She must be quite the temptress in the bedroom. _I can not wait to meet the illustrious Madame DuPuis, he grinned to himself_.

- () -

Footnotes:

Corduroy or corde du roi (roughly translated as "cloth/cord of the king"). An 1807 French list of manufactured articles includes an entry for "kings-cordes", apparently taken from English. (_wikipedia_)


	14. Ch14 High Anxiety

**_Hi, spring is coming and things are heating up in the DuPuis household. Enjoy the chapter! _**

**_-Leesainthesky_**

Ch14 Anxiety

Pauline's mysterious fiancé was neither English nor American, but he had lived in the states before. During their pleasant walk in the garden Gabrielle also learned that the mystery-jerk was dashing and charming and had bled Pauline of her savings; worse still, she hadn't had her menses in two months now and was feeling queasy in the morning—a sure sign that she was with child.

With tears in her eyes she begged Gabrielle to tell her what to do. "I cannot return to England," she implored.

"You'll stay with us until we leave for Europe this summer."

"What will I do after you leave? Won't I still be . . . increasing?"

_Yep, Gabrielle thought, and began calculating, it's been four months since the last time she did it with jerk-boy and she used condoms with the johns. Pauline was somewhere between three and five months along.  
_  
"Look here," Gabrielle took the young woman's hands in hers. "If nothing else, you can come live with us in France. Whatever happens, Pauline, we won't abandon you . . . I'll figure out _something_," she reassured her.

"I . . . I cannot take charity from you and monsieur DuPuis, it isn't right, it isn't proper." She turned from Gabrielle and flung herself into a garden chair.

Gabrielle sighed quietly and approached the girl, turned her around and held her tear-stained face in her hands. "Now you listen to me, Miss Sheffield. You are an English woman from hearty and noble stock. You have within you what it takes to not only survive, but to thrive. Dry those tears, hold your head up, and reach deep inside yourself for the strength to move past this brief chapter of your life.

Pauline simply stared at Gabrielle and sniffled.

"Do you at least understand what I am saying to you?"

"Yes. I truly do."

"That's a good start." Gabrielle offered her a smile and looped her arm around the girl's shoulders, walking her back into the house.

"First off, we'll get you well fed on food that is healthy for you and your baby while you regain your strength, and you'll take lots of walks in the park and warm soothing baths. I want you to start a diary to see where you've been and where you are going—you know, a sort of personal progress report. How does that sound?"

"Very much like I have something to live for."

"You bet you do, girl! You have you, you have him … or her," Gabrielle eyed her flat stomach. "Pauline, while having a mate to share parenthood with is ideal, you can make a good life for you and your offspring without one by your side—even in this day and age."

"Pardon me?" she knit her brows at Gabrielle.

"With today's expanded opportunities for women is what I meant," Gabrielle backpedaled, trying to cover up her time sensitive blunder.

"My parents . . ."

"We can deal with them later. Right now, it's all about Pauline, young lady. Now, go to Carrie and ask her what we have for a snack, then grab yourself a nap. It's five-thirty now and Erik should be home for supper, which is usually at eight. I'm cooking tonight."

"May I be of assistance?" Pauline asked.

"Thank you, but no. Too many cooks in the kitchen spoil the broth and all that," Gabrielle laughed. "I'm going to put Jon down for a nap and take a bath. If you want something to read you may help yourself to any of the books in the library. The owner of this house really likes his early American history; if that's your thing, you'll be in heaven. If not, there is an assortment we brought with us from France—they're on the desk and strewn about the end tables . . . Elliot, Hugo, Dante, Dickens, plus copies of _Harper's, Le Figaro_ and _The New York Times_."

"I've not perused a copy of Harper's Bazaar in months," she brightened. "I will indeed partake of your reading materials, Gabrielle, thank you." She curtsied and the sun came out in the form of a rare smile.

"My pleasure," Gabrielle replied, watching Pauline stroll toward the kitchen. She was amused at how the young woman still retained some of her aristocratic dignity.

_Dear lord, it doesn't matter what century I'm in, we women always find a way of letting ourselves get blindside by men or love, or what we think is love_. She reflected back on her tumultuous days with Tony.

_And oh that Erik . . . even those of us who know what to do find ourselves knocked-up. She smiled and shook her head_. Gabrielle's mind fast-forwarded to this morning and her dripping wet, deliciously squeaky clean and vigorously excited husband staring a hole in her with those bedroom eyes.

_Stop it, Gab. You have no time for lewd daydreams_, she admonished herself and labored to replace thoughts of Erik with thoughts of tonight's supper menu. It was a useless avocation; when her list ended at dessert, Gabrielle considered the novel ways one might appreciate white and dark chocolate mousse. For a fleeting moment she closed her eyes and sighed. _I must hold back an extra serving for later in the evening . . . _.

Erik needed to walk, to put space between his darkened mood and his inclination to squash the pesky fly that had flitted, unwelcome, into his territory.

Forgoing a cab, he walked the five blocks from the Mosaic to the train station on Broadway. The spring evening's chill helped clear his head of a roiling boil of emotions.

Signore Vincenzo, former manager of the Lyric Theatre in Paris, had landed at the very opera house where _La Femme du Norde _was in rehearsals. Given the Italian's odd behavior toward Gabrielle and his query about her relation to an American scientist by the name of "Jonathan-Thomassen", Erik knew his re-appearance in their lives was hardly a coincidence.

When Vincenzo suddenly resigned from the Lyric, Gabrielle breathed a sigh of relief—why had he mentioned her father . . . was he a fellow time traveler? If so, why was the man being so cloak and dagger about it? Nadir Khan, the former Persian Chief of Police and Erik's longtime friend, had discovered Vincenzo was the grandson of the late composer Adriano Adolpho, a fact that muddled the time traveler theory.

Adolpho had been no fan of Erik's—correction—he had been all _too much_ a fan of his music.

He recalled the incident when the late composer had lifted several bits from one of Erik's lesser known works, then attempted to pass them off as his own in an opera Adolpho named _Coeur de Demon_. When it opened, more than one reviewer pooh-poohed the work as juvenile and noted how the only redeemable notes in the entire score resembled a previous work of the French composer Erik DuPuis.

The following day, a rumor swirled through the entertainment community that Adolpho had stormed into the newspaper offices ranting and raving like a madman.

Still, Erik failed to make the pieces fit. His musings came down to one troubling, finite question: _what in the hell_ does he want with my family?

The entire situation reeked more than the pre-Haussmann sewers of Paris.

Gabrielle would not be pleased. Erik had sensed her apprehension toward the Italian man when they'd crossed paths in Paris. Fear was not a normal aspect of his wife's character and he regretted having to tell her that Vincenzo was once again poking his aquiline nose into their business.

Although the first few months in America had been a bit of a transition for Erik it was otherwise uneventful—enter Paul Sheffield and his lost little sister. _And now that Italian bastard works at my opera house. What do you expect, Monsieur Le Fantôme_? he asked himself with a snort, _wherever you roam, chaos follows _…

Erik boarded the el and propped his elbow against the armrest, resting his chin upon his knuckles and peered out the train car's dirty window.

Businesses that had closed for the evening reached like ghosts up into the twilight; the illuminated row house windows reminded him of spare teeth. Occasionally Erik would catch a glimpse of a mother clearing the supper table of dishes and it dawned on him—the hour was much later than he'd realized.

A consultation of his gold pocket watch confirmed the late hour . . . several minutes after nine o'clock. Gabrielle served supper every evening at 8:00 and unless he told her otherwise, he was always on time.

_She'll be worried —damn it all—tonight she planned a special meal for me, too_. He cursed himself for allowing the Vincenzo situation to distract him from what was truly important: his family and his music.

"Perfection!" Gabrielle said proudly, taking stock of the table now set for supper. "All that's missing is Erik." She stuck her fists on her hips and looked around the dining room as though he might, at any instant, appear out of thin air. Erik was wont to perform such dramatics.

"Perhaps rehearsals are late this evening . . . the opening is near and unforeseen problems are sure to arise, Madame." Behind her Carrie was filling goblets with water from an enormous crystal pitcher.

Gabrielle turned to her and smiled. "I suppose you're right, Carrie. I wouldn't be the first wife to wait and wonder why her husband is late for supper."

"He will arrive soon, do not fret," the young maid reassured her.

It wasn't polite to begin a meal when the head of the household wasn't present, but the feast she'd prepared was sure to get cold and congealed and her guests must be hungry. Gabrielle decided she'd wait until 9:15 to call Paul and Pauline to supper. Jon always stayed up until his papa arrived home, but the boy had played hard today and was becoming cranky.

_C'mon honey_, she pled to Erik under her breath.

"Carrie, I'll keep an eye on things here if you would please prepare Jon for bed. Tell him he doesn't have to go just yet, but he does need a bath and his pajamas."

"Yes—the little stinker—he'll whine if you or his papa do not read him a bedtime tale."

"He's can stay up a little while longer if he plays quietly in his room until we come to tuck him in."

Per her mistress' instructions, Carrie dashed off to find the child and coax him into the bathtub.

Gabrielle found the siblings reading quietly in the study. "I apologize for making you wait for supper . . . Erik is not late as a rule. If you like I can serve some crudités until he arrives," she offered.

"No dear, we're fine, really—we shall wait for Monsieur DuPuis, I've found that the city traffic is often brutishly unpredictable. I'm certain he'll be along directly," said Paul, resting a copy of _The Times_ in his lap.

Gabrielle nodded and caught a glimpse of Pauline sipping on a sherry and frowned, fighting back an urge to admonish her from drinking alcohol while pregnant. Not only was the younger woman not aware of the dangers but her brother was not aware of his sister's delicate condition. _A conversation for another time_, she reminded herself.

"You are worried, Gabrielle. Is there anything I can do for you?" Pauline asked sweetly, sensing her hostess' unease.

"Just thinking of supper—and of Erik," she replied, shaking off the foreboding feeling that had ridden on her shoulders for several days. Gabrielle made for the kitchen to prepare a plate of cheese and fruit for her guests when she heard the rattle of keys and the creak and thud of the front door opening and closing. She poked her head into the hallway and called for Erik.

There he was, late but alive, hanging his hat and cloak on the hat stand. He turned toward Gabrielle's and her heart skipped a beat.

Though barely discernable to most people, she knew something was eating at her husband.

"A brutal rehearsal tonight, sweetheart?" she asked as she approached him, taking him into her embrace, which he returned with a stiff kiss on the cheek.

"You've no earthly idea," he growled.

"You've got to be famished. Let's tuck Jon in and then let me feed you, then you'll feel better."

"I've no appetite whatsoever."

_And after I've spent most of my day cooking just for you!_, she wanted to fling back at him, but the look on his face and the tone of his voice made Gabrielle decide against an imprudent remark.

Erik paused at the threshold of the study to apologize for keeping everyone waiting, then followed his wife to their son's bedroom.

After Jon was happily tucked into bed and read a brief fable, the couple drifted toward the stairs.

"I take it your day at the opera house was no tiptoe through the tulips?" she inquired, brushing up against the arm of her brooding husband.

Erik halted in the middle of the darkened hallway and placed his hands on his wife's shoulders. He searched her face and noted the worry in her eyes.

"It isn't the company which vexes me tonight—they always vex me during rehearsals; unfortunately our old acquaintance Signore Vincenzo has re-surfaced as the Mosaic Theater's new operation's manager," Erik said, keeping his voice low and even.

Gabrielle's stunned expression confirmed what he'd anticipated: she feared the peculiar Italian. If only Erik knew why. At the moment he suffered a frustrating impotence in helping ease her apprehension.

Gabrielle's haunted expression was replaced by a recondite visage. She smiled vacantly, patted Erik on his chest and drew away from his embrace. "Let's go to supper before it spoils," she said and started for the dining room.

- () -

(Desert to follow dinner, twice . . .)

_Coeur de Demon: Demon Heart_


	15. Ch15 Delectations

No, I did not abandon Sojourns, although it doesn't have many readers. I never just ditch a story so this will be completed. Life has been, shall we say, quite insane this past month. I hope you enjoy this chapter. It contains lots of "Erik heat."

**Ch15 Delectations**

Busy with last minute dinner preparations, Gabrielle found she could—for short stretches—push all thoughts of Vincenzo from her thoughts, and thanks to a sumptuous meal, conversation was kept to a minimum. However, the need for answers eventually took over. Both Erik and Gabrielle struggled throughout the meal with the shards of information, blind assumptions and apprehensions implanted in their minds from his earlier revelation.

Who was this man, known to them as Antinio Vincenzo? The couple mulled over this fresh intrusion into their life, preferring to remain mute on the subject. Why bother the guests with personal travails when they had their own to solve?

Thankfully, Gabrielle's culinary talents delighted everyone and young Jon's served as a charming diversion for the adults, whose internal baggage tugged at their individual attentions throughout the meal.

Erik considered not mentioning the dinner invitation extended to his guests by Mr. Appleton, then recanted his decision. Having more bodies at the dreaded dinner would mean fewer banal questions to suffer from their hosts.

Erik drained his wine glass and toyed with it for a few moments before addressing the Sheffields. "Mr. Appleton, the manager of the Mosaic theatre wishes to entertain us in his home tomorrow evening. The invitation is extended to the both of you and I welcome your company, if you should desire to join Gabrielle and me," he said.

Paul and Paula exchanged a quick glance. "You go ahead Paul, the socializing will do you good," commented his sister. "I still feel a tad peaked and want to rest for a few more days before pressing myself back into society."

"Of course, dearest," Paul replied with a nod of gentle understanding for his frail sister.

An outing at the home of the Mosaic's manager was the last place Pauline wanted for her first foray into public since transitioning from a prostitute to a woman on the mend. Little did she know the small list of guests included her diabolical former fiancé.

"Although I will be a bit of a 'fifth wheel' without a date, I accept the invitation. Goodness knows I need to get out and about more," said Paul with a self-deprecating chuckle.

After supper, Erik retired to the music room to tweak a violin concerto he'd been working on, Paul settled into the library with a good book and Pauline retired to her bedroom.

Gabrielle took refuge in the little sitting room of the master suite and sat at the writing desk, where she employed a fact finding tactic leaned as a reporter. She scribbled down a laundry list of things concerning Signore Vincenzo. _Not much to go on_, she told herself as she rested her chin on the palm of her hand and stared down at the inventory:

_Antinio Vincenzo Adolpho: An Italian born man who once worked in American theatre. Moved to France for a position at the Lyric Theatre; Erik's work played there shortly after his arrival. Vincenzo thinks he has met me before. Grandson of a semi-famous and troubled composer purported to be jealous of Erik's genius— his grandfather once lifted notes from Erik's work—the man eventually went mad and killed himself. _

_Nothing too off the beaten path here, I mean, he's from a musical family and moves within that particular occupational and social circle—that he has been employed in the same theatre as Erik, twice, could be a mild coincidence. The fact that his grandfather hated Erik, now that is a bit more disturbing—an opportunity for devious intent. Thinks he may know me …used to happen often in my former world. Who doesn't have a doppelänger?  
_  
The final line Gabrielle had written on the parchment was the one that drove a spike of fear into her adrenal system: _While at the Lyric in France, Vincenzo asked if I were related to the scientist Jonathan Thomassen._  
"Not a mild coincidence," she spoke aloud, leaning back in her chair and running her fingers through her loose hair.

"What is not a mild coincidence, my sweet?" Erik asked from somewhere behind her, then his warm hands fell lightly on her tense shoulders.

"Oh, it's Vincenzo," she sighed, and reached up to grasp one of his hands. "I've been mulling over a list of things I know about him and looking for clues—small ones, big ones, ridiculous ones; digging for an answer as to why he is so friggin' icky."

"Unless the man makes a move on you, we should not trouble ourselves with the inconsequential gnat. That is my decision on the matter, Gabrielle. Trust me; should he exercise imprudence in his actions toward my family, the man will suffer grave consequences." There was no mistaking the intent in Erik's firm, resolute tone.

"I dunno, Erik …" Gabrielle fumbled to finish her sentence. The one thing she knew _absolutely_ was that she must confront Vincenzo about his intent. His cat and mouse game with her had to end before she was driven to madness by her analytical mind.

Erik began to work on the tension plagued muscles in her neck and shoulders. "Relax, mon amie, think only of us," he encouraged. Erik peered over her shoulder at the list committing it to memory. He reasoned that a man with a devious mind could certainly unravel the machinations of another such man. Yes, he would engage his ingenuity and delve into the realm of Antinio Vincenzo.

Gabrielle slumped forward and moaned, relishing the relief his fingers promised. "Harder," she pled.

"Glutton for punishment, aren't you."

"No, I just prefer a hearty massage."

"That's not all," he said under his breath, but she caught the remark, closed her eyes and smiled as Erik's hands moved down her back, paying careful attention to every tight knot. Soon Gabrielle was a relaxed lump of woman flesh.

"Thank you, god, you've no idea how good you are at that."

"I have only my skilled tutor to thank," he laughed, reflecting back on the time several years ago when Gabrielle had led him to his bedroom and bade him to lie on his bed while she straddled him. It had been his first back massage.

"What are we going to do with Vincenzo …I swear he wants something from us, Erik—what, I've no idea," she said turning around to search his face.

A frown of concern knit across his features as he considered her words. "Keep our eyes on his every move. He cannot be as clever as he imagines himself to be."

"I've half a mind to corner him in a serious 'Q & A' session during tomorrow night's dinner."

Erik sighed. "Gabrielle, you do not want to place yourself in the path of a dangerous situation. Suppose Vincenzo _is_ a madman?"

"What's he going to do in a house full of people?" she countered, then turned back around and stretched forward for Erik to massage the muscles on her lower back.

"Do nothing imprudent. Do you understand me?" he warned.

"I won't."

"Finished, Madame," he said with one final caress up the length of her back.

"Thanks, I feel like a new woman."

"Come here," he said and she turned around to receive the warm comfort of his embrace. He buried his face in her clean hair and inhaled her scent.

"Gabrielle, no one will split a single hair on your head as long as I am near, you do know this?" he asked.

"I do," she answered, though she imagined what frightened her most about Vincenzo was beyond Erik's protective powers.

"I brought up dessert," she brightened.

"I see, but I've already imbibed."

"Maybe I'd like another helping, ala Erik." Her grin turned seductive and her green-brown eyes gleamed like a wily cat's.

"Madame has an appetite does she?" he volleyed back playfully.

"Um hum," she peered from beneath her lashes and licked her bottom lip.

Erik chortled as he rested against the pillow strewn headboard and crossed his arms over his chest. His silk robe slipped enough to reveal a peek of naked torso. Gabrielle's gaze followed the trail of dark chest hair that disappeared below his midriff.

The lack of physical exercise from not working on, walking or riding around his vast estate was responsible for the few extra pounds on Erik's 6'2" frame, but to Gabrielle, he was still exceptionally fit for a man of his day and age and she thoroughly enjoyed eyeing her husband's naked body.

"Checking out the goodies are you?" he teased.

"Hell yes, you're mine to ogle whenever I like, you know."

"Agreed, ogle away, my princess," he said and untied the robe's sash, letting the silky fabric fall away, revealing a steadily growing erection.

Gabrielle made her way up the bed on her knees, crawling between his outstretched legs and pausing only to reach for the dish of chocolate mousse. She spooned out a dollop of the rich dessert, plopped it on the head of his cock and frosted his shaft from tip to root then crouched down and peered up at his face grinning devilishly. An amused Erik lifted an eyebrow at his wife below him. She flicked the tip of her tongue against the sensitive underside of his shaft and began lapping the confection from his phallus. Their moans of delight mingled—hers for the taste of the mousse and of him, his for the excruciating pleasure Gabrielle's talented tongue was delivering to him.

She scooped more mousse from the dish and repeated the process, only this time she sank her mouth over his cock as though she were a sword-swallower at the fair, withdrawing slowly as she sucked the cream from him, reapplying and sucking several times until the mousse was nearly spent.

"Mon dieu, woman, you do have a sweet tooth," Erik breathed heavily as she flicked her tongue around the rim of his head licking every last speck of the creamy dessert from his cock.

"Where you are concerned, I am insatiable," she said, her voice heavy with desire for him.

"What if I come in your mouth?"

"I'll devour that, too."

"Oh Gabrielle . . ." Erik's words became low moans because come is exactly what he did. He could not contain himself and gave in to his need for release.

Gabrielle drank of her husband's juice, finding pleasure in the most intimate of acts between two lovers.

Once Erik's convulsions ceased, she laid her head on his belly. "I love you, Erik," she whispered huskily against his warm flesh, caressing his chest.

"And I love you, my sweet, vixen-wife," he panted above her.

"I would anticipate another quick awakening of my groin if I were not so tired from the day's trails," he said apologetically. She replied by kissing his navel.

"Much as I enjoy you straight up, I am willing to accept your gratitude in other ways," she said, raising her head to look him in the eye so there was no mistaking her intent.

Erik gave a hearty laugh and drew her up to his lips for a deep kiss. "I am your willing servant, Madame DuPuis. Exchange places with me."

It was Gabrielle's turn to rest on the downy pillows while her husband scooped the last bit of mousse onto his finger and smeared it over the hood of her clit. He swirled his tongue around the soft flesh with a whispery touch while his fingers were busy circling her sensitive labia.

_How can he orchestrate two conflicting motions at once? Ah yes, he's a multi-tasking pianists of course. I am a lucky girl_, she thought happily.

"Tasty little bit aren't you?" he teased. Her only response was giggle. The licking continued for countless minutes sending Gabrielle into a heightened state of arousal. Instinctively she reached down to his penis and was pleasantly surprised to find him hard.

"Fuck me, Erik," she whispered.

"I'm not ready," he mumbled into her vagina.

"Like hell you're not," she shot back, her voice hoarse with desire.

Erik slid his tongue into her as far as it would go and probed her humid softness. His reward was a face full of needy Gabrielle.

"Erik," she whimpered, "_Please_— if you don't drive that god-given cock of yours into me now, I'm going to melt into nothing but a puddle on the sheets.

"It is my observation that you already have, darling," he replied with a low chuckle and continued his torturous play.

Gabrielle writhed against his mouth and he suckled on her hardened pink pearl. She wasn't sure why, after such a trying day, she could be so intensely aroused. Maybe it was the need to release tension, coupled with Erik's ability to touch her body in ways she had only dreamed of.

She slipped her fingers beneath his soggy chin, gently nudged him from her crotch and began stroking herself. "Ah, I'm so hot …" she sighed while parting her folds to reveal the swollen pink path to Erik's pleasure, then dipped her finger into her well of creamy fluids. "Erik, here," Gabrielle purred with satisfaction when she saw the effect her actions were having on him.

"If my diva commands, than I shall perform," he laughed wryly and rose up to fetch a French letter from the drawer, but Gabrielle beat him to it, opened the sheath and rolled it greedily over his bulging length.

"Do me, baby," she grinned as she lounged against the pillows, her coppery-brown hair in sexy disarray against the pillows. Erik ran his hands across the silken skin of her stomach and around her breasts taking pause to tweak her nipples. His flashing green eyes and crooked grin told her he was having way too much fun teasing her.

When he leaned in to position his tip at her opening, Gabrielle grabbed Erik's ass and pulled him forward. He grunted when he tumbled against her and slid with ease into her wet welcoming tunnel.

"Greedy, impatient woman," he laughed and gave her exactly what she wanted—fast, furious, lusty sex. When she came, she grabbed a pillow and buried her face into it to keep from waking the entire household with the sounds of her enthusiastic release.

Thanks to Erik, the Vincenzo business was temporarily forgotten. Tonight, Gabrielle would sleep well.

**- () -**

They needed a little "we-time" don't you think?


	16. Ch16 Dinner Plans

_Dear readers,_

_Forgive me; life's responsibilities have swarmed about me like angry bees. But the insanity has abated …some and I am back with the DuPuis'. This is short, but it'll get us all back on track. Thanks to all of you who emailed me and who are hanging in here with this little epic tale. You rock._

_-Leesa_

**Sojourns Ch16 Dinner Plans**

The Mosaic's new operation's manager smiled as he closed the ledger and leaned back in his chair. Antonio Vincenzo may not have been a financial genius, but he knew musicians. He was certain the theatre could cut expenses by offering premium salaries for the principal performers and considerably less for the others—with few other options in the big apple, they would complain little.

Then there was the matter of Monsieur DuPuis. The composer was being paid handsomely for his little opera and it made Vincenzo's blood boil. His grandfather had been, at the very least, a superior composer compared to that bloated French hack.

The late Signore Adolpho had come into his own musically during the same period as DuPuis yet it was the arrogant Frenchman history would revere and not his late grandfather. The snubs of the ignorant upper class had led to Adolpho's demise. Someone had to pay. Someone would.

Coincidence played no part in Vincenzo's employment at the opera house. With the secrets he'd collected on Monsieur DuPuis and his family, he expected compliance from the composer.

But which of his precious works would DuPuis sacrifice to the cause? _I'll dedicate more grey matter to that latter, for now I shall enjoy focusing on tonight's dinner invitation at Mr. Appleton's house and another chance to ruffle Gabrielle DuPuis' lovely feathers._

Oh yes, Antonio counted the hours.

Erik's keen senses told him he was being watched. Swiftly, effortlessly, Erik snared the culprit, lifting him up into the air.

"Ah, I've got you now, what do you think about that?"  
The offender simply squirmed and giggled at his papa.

"Shhh, maman is sleeping and we mustn't wake her," he told the child in a whisper and laid him on his chest.

"Too late for that," replied the sleepy voice cocooned in the bed sheets next to him.

"Forgive us, my love."

"S'okay," she said pulling her body from the warm bedclothes. She first kissed her son on the cheek and then her husband.

"I could sleep all day, guess those times are long gone," she yawned.

"Sleep a while longer, I'll tend to Jon. You deserve rest after the week you've had with the Sheffield's, my bad news, work and last night's toothsome meal," he replied, flashing a grin at her as he recalled last night's late dessert session.

Gabrielle stretched then scratched Jon on his belly, eliciting a fit of giggles from the boy who retreated into his papa's arms. She touched Erik's face, rough with morning stubble and smiled up at him. "Thanks, sweetheart. I need my wits about me for dinner tonight."

Erik's eyes darkened briefly at the thought of the evening's planned festivities. Being on guard with a predator whose history and intent he could not figure out put him in a highly agitated state.

He kissed Gabrielle on the brow. "Don't let me sleep too long or I'll never get my article for _City Woman_ finished," she added before burrowing back beneath the covers.

"Shall we visit the water closet and see if we can persuade Carrie into pancakes for breakfast?" Erik said to his son. He reached for his robe hanging on the chair next to the bed and slipped into it, then set Jon on his feet.

The little fellow chatted about strawberry jam and clotted cream as the two made their way from the bed chamber.

As Gabrielle once again settled down for sleep, she slipped into the realm of dreams where images of happy, safe young women played with their children, fragrant wildflowers swayed in the warm breeze outside her home in France, and, while at a jovial dinner party, a dinner knife cutting a bit of beef somehow ended up at the base of her throat. She struggled against the image, but it managed to suck her deeper into the bowels of sleep.

-()-

_It won't be two months before the next one …promise. Please review._


	17. Ch17 Anticipation

_Howdy! I hope all is well with you. Enjoy the chapter and thanks for reading. _

_**Sojourns17 Anticipation **_

Murielle Appleton fussed with the tall floral arrangement gracing the entry way table. Since her husband's promotion to general manager of a prestigious new venue, he had insisted on entertaining formally and often. Not that Murielle minded. Her father, Colonel Donnel Kern, was a third generation export-import man providing his family with all the "new rich" could enjoy.

Her family made attending the opera, theatre and the ballet a regular practice. Why, it was at the opera where she met the handsome young Mr. Appleton, then assistant to the managing director of the theatre. Their attraction was instant and her parents were not pleased. Although wealthy, her family lacked the class status necessary to secure invites to the parlours of blue-blooded society.

They had hoped their only daughter might snare a Rockefeller or Vanderbilt, not a common Appleton!

The thought of meeting Monsieur DuPuis and his American born wife thrilled Murielle. An aura of intrigue swirled around the esteemed composer's reputation and Gabrielle DuPuis was an author! Imagine, a woman with her wealth choosing to work for a living.

Murielle was also pleased to have an eligible bachelor attending their little soirée. The Appleton's eldest daughter, Constance, was already eighteen and had entertained very few suitors since her coming out party last season. Signore Vincenzo was not titled, but he had class, intelligence, and was of European descent. Constance could hardly wish for better. Mrs. Appleton sincerely hoped her daughter's fine figure might catch his eye. Unfortunately, the dear child did not inherit the best, but rather the worst physical features from her fairly attractive parents: Grandfather Kern's diminutive chin, Grandmother Appleton's aquiline nose and her father's thin tresses. _What sins had she committed to cause God to bestow upon the poor girl the worst traits of her ancestors_? Murielle wondered before bustling off to check on cook's progress in the kitchen.

oOo

While Gabrielle slept, Carrie fed the two DuPuis men and their houseguests breakfast, then readied young Jon for a walk to feed his pets ...the Grammacy Park pigeons.

Pauline, still leery of who she might run into in the outside world, declined an invitation to join Carrie. Instead, she opted for time spent in the garden with a book. Paul was off for a day of attending business correspondence with associates back in London. Erik, relishing this rare moment of solitude, retreated to his study to peruse the morning mail.

He sighed as he lowered his long frame into the leather arm chair. _Not as spry as you once were, old man, _he chided himself, feeling new stiffness in his knees. It did not occur to Erik his muscular pain might be from his most recent sexual enthusiasms.

Setting his steaming coffee cup on the desktop, he reached for the pile of mail brought in earlier by Carrie. The latest edition of _City Woman _caught Erik's attention. Forgoing the _Times_, he lifted the periodical from the stack and checked the contents page for his wife's familiar by-line. There it was, below the entry; _New York Turns a Blind Eye to Children with Children_.

Typically Gabrielle brought an advance copy of the publication home before the edited version was available for general consumption. Erik didn't give much thought to the oddity of getting his first glimpse of the edition via the mail. With haste, he shook out the paper, thumbed to the article on page six and settled back in his chair to read.

_Even with Comstock's lofty vice laws in effect, the flesh trade is booming in the city of New York. _

_Those responsible for the common good have turned a blind eye to what has been labeled a necessary evil …a vice accepted for quelling the carnal thirsts of a vigorous society. Alas, we generally accept that "men will be men" and once satiated these "good men" of New York go on their merry way, leaving their objects of relief to suffer whatever consequences may befall them. Indeed, these women have chosen prostitution as their profession. Unfortunately, it is the helpless innocents produced from such carefree couplings are forced into a world of desperation. _

_Who will care for the offspring of these sordid women? Not the men whose seed has been thoughtlessly and illegally spilled into their wombs ...there are wives and reputations to protect! Alas, these men's poor little bastards are left to grow up in an environment already crippled by vice. _

_Shame and degradation do not produce healthy citizens. Are we not our brother's (and sisters) keepers?_ _Does not the Holy bible not command us to care for the widows and orphans? _

_While there is much we cannot change, as women, mothers, sisters, wives and friends, we can—we must reach out to these sisters in need. We must provide them with a place of shelter where they and their children will receive the nurturing required to live better lives. _

_If you are of a benevolent heart, I challenge you to join me in a campaign to raise money for the provision of "safe houses" where love and nurturing is the method of empowering wayward women to become useful, upstanding citizens of this city. _

_But first you must act. Please send inquiries and suggestions in care of this publication so together we can save the children of the night. _

Erik's heart raced as he finished Gabrielle's article. His wife's passions reached far beyond the bedroom and he was indeed proud of her courage. However, shedding an unflattering spotlight on the illusion of civic morality would not bring Gabrielle favor with civic officials.

Perhaps those who read her article will be moved enough to take action. But oh how he worried about his woman!

The halfway house project that Gabrielle referred to as "Loving Arms," had received the backing of a few well-heeled individuals, but more money was needed for the project's actualization. Convincing the city's prostitutes to trust those who ran the houses would be her next challenge.

_If anyone can see this project to fruition, it is my wife_, he mused aloud, closing the periodical and tossing it aside for Gabrielle to find when she awoke.

oOo

"The blue or the lilac?" Gabrielle asked her husband as she held up both frocks for his inspection.

Erik gave the garments a fleeting glance before his eyes drifted to the woman clad in only a corset and stockings

"I prefer neither," he answered.

"How come?" she said, slightly exasperated.

"Because I prefer no frock at all," Erik explained as he fiddled with his diamond and onyx cufflinks.

"Lord, you are incorrigible," she cried, throwing a small velvet hat at him.

He dogged the chapeau and laughed. "The lilac, if you _must_. It compliments your complexion well," he answered, watching her traipse off toward her dressing area to change for the evening.

While en route to the Appleton's modest mansion in a swank section of the city, the couple discussed what sort of feedback Gabrielle might expect from the recent _City Woman_ article.

"I sincerely hope there isn't any backlash," she commented.

"I sincerely hope you expect it, dear," Erik retorted, giving her hand a gentle squeeze. "In my experience the self-important do not take kindly to being exposed as less than magnificent. Their illusion of New York is as a shining star. Your article has shed an unflattering light on just how tarnished the city truly is. Let us not forget how you've already endeared yourself to the local gendarmes."

Gabrielle parted the carriage's velvet curtain to check out the passing cityscape. "Yeah, yeah. I thought they might have forgotten my name," she sighed.

"Highly doubtful, my darling. You have a way of making an impression on people."

"What do you think the evening at the Appleton's will be like, Erik?" she asked without turning from the small window.

"Dreadfully tedious," he groused. "An evening of banal pleasantries, conversation on mundane musical topics and personal questions that I prefer not to grace with an answer."

Gabrielle turned toward him. "People are interested in what you do, sweetheart and they do try to be polite. Give the Appletons a chance, Erik. Obviously they're fans or you wouldn't be staging your opera at the Mosaic," she reminded him in tone meant to sooth her brooding husband.

For her efforts, Gabrielle received a growl and a scowl.

"Do try to be a gentleman, Erik."

"When have I been anything but? I may look a beast, but I do have manners, woman."

Choosing not to answer, Gabrielle switched the subject to a more loaded one.

"Vincenzo is who I fear I may have a tough time with tonight. I swear, Erik, if that boob drags out that I-know-something-you-don't-know act again, I'll meet him in a dark hallway and open up a can of twenty-first century whoopass on him!" she declared, imagining laying him low with a good round-house kick to this neck.

"No, you will not." The very last thing Erik wanted was a rumble between his wife and the theatre's operations manager. He didn't think that Mr. Appleton would appreciate having the composer of his theatre's latest opera murdering a fellow employee in his home. While it made for a good storyline, the publicity would be lousy.

"I'll not have that man toying with me, Erik. I won't!" she replied, jumping in her seat for added emphasis.

"Ignore him."

"Yeah, that always works for _you_."

He crossed his gloved hands across his lap. "Darling, you've no idea the occasions when I've made someone's day by allowing their little faux pas to slip silently by," he informed her with a wry smirk.

"I know, Erik. And I'll try to turn the other cheek …concentrate on the other guests and engage my interviewing talents. People do love to talk about themselves," she reassured him with a squeeze of his arm.

"Looks like we're here," she remarked to the sound of the driver guiding his horse to a stop in front of a well-lit brownstone. She grabbed Erik by the hand and gazed deeply into his jade eyes.

"Let's make a pact to behave, okay?

"What must we do, swap blood?"

"No, spit," she grinned impishly.

"How appalling," Erik said, making a face indicating his disgust with her crude suggestion and made for the door handle.

"Would a kiss suffice?" she asked drawing her face close to his.

"Nicely and preferably," he smiled, releasing the carriage door handle and taking her into his arms.

-()-

_Thanks for your comments and welcome new readers. I love you all! Please do review ... (Thanks to Barb for her editing assistance). _

_-Leesainthesky _


	18. Ch18 Sojourns Cont

Dear fabulous and faithful readers,

Your patronage of my stories and your reviews are appreciated and cherished. I regret that I have been remiss in submitting additional chapters for Sojourns. The summer has been a cruel one…very busy with new job responsibilities and personal issues zapping me of any extracurricular activities (like writing about my beloved DuPuis). Forgive me. I am struggling to finish the story. Thank you, all of you, for hanging with me.

-Leesainthesky


	19. CH19 Food for Thought

I have found my muse and picked up the story of Gabrielle and Erik. I don't have a Beta at the moment, so forgive any mistakes I might have missed.

Thank you all for your kind comments and patience.

-Leesainthesky

Sojourns. CH19 Food for Thought

"My darling DuPuis', so you've arrived."

Murielle Appleton swept down the hallway amid a rustling cloud of silk and perfume as the butler was relieving Gabrielle and Erik of their outer garments."Madame Appleton." Erik bowed deeply and took Murielle's hand in his. "It is my pleasure to meet you. Permit me to introduce my wife, the lovely Madame Gabrielle Thommasen-DuPuis."

"Thank you for your invitation, Madame," said Gabrielle with a curtsey and a sparkling smile for her hostess. "And may I say what an impressive home you have," she continued with a sweep of her head indicating the dark parquet ceiling, rich red velvet walls and gleaming brass fixtures of the entry hall.

"Why thank you, my dear…it's a modest city abode, but George and I find it accommodating. Please, let's not dally here; come and warm up by the fire." Murielle said, releasing her grasp on Gabrielle's hand and ushering the couple toward a handsomely decorated parlour where a sizable fire was crackling away in the hearth.

Situated in opposing leather chairs and cradling goblets of an amber liquid, George Appleton and Antonio Vincenzo turned their attentions to the new arrivals. Both men stood and bowed.

"Good of you to come, DuPuis. I find the company of fellow artists an amiable way to pass an evening. Don't you, Antonio? " Appleton nodded to the Italian.

"Indeed, and a sublime pleasure to see you again, Madame DuPuis," Vincenzo oozed charm as he addressed Gabrielle. She managed a demure smile; her eyes showing no trace of the ice crystallizing in around her heart.

"I trust you are well, Monsieur?" she replied.

"Damp as the weather has been of late, I still find the raw enthusiasm of the city invigorating."

_I'll just bet you do_, she thought, reflecting on his taste for the city's whorehouses.

"Have you made the acquaintance of any lady friends yet, Monsieur?" Gabrielle inquired. The question earned her a soft nudge from Erik.

"Please, where are my manners…do sit," sputtered Murielle quite taken with the tall DuPuis and his pretty wife.

Erik steered Gabrielle to a vacant loveseat beside the fire and urged her down with an enthusiastic pull on her elbow. She nearly stumbled from the suddenness of his movement, but quickly regained her poise by smiling and smoothing her skirts.

"I see you've not brought your son along," said Murielle.

"He had a bit of the sniffles," Gabrielle fibbed. "I thought it best he stay home to rest rather that infect the members of your household with some ghastly cold."

"A most vigilant mother," Mr. Appleton commented. "Although our youngest daughter shall be greatly disappointed."

"Perhaps we'll arrange a play date at another time." Gabrielle glanced at Mrs. Appleton for concurrence, realizing from the slight twist of the woman's mouth that she wasn't certain what exactly a "play-date" might be.

On cue, a plump golden curled youngster tore into the room racing to her mother and pulling on her skirts. "Mother, where is my new friend?" She implored scanning the room for her promised companion.

Mrs. Appleton petted the girl's head in consolation. "Master Jon is not well tonight, my darling. We'll have him visit us on another day, all right then?"

"No!" she stomped and pouted up at her mother.

Erik's grip on Gabrielle's elbow tightened. Fond as he was of children, petulance was not seen as a virtue. In the DuPuis household, whining was frowned on and never rewarded.

Gabrielle leaned toward the girl, smiled and used her warmest motherly tone. "Vanessa. I am Jon's mother. He is most disappointed to not be able to play with you. I feared you may catch his illness, and then neither one of you could play. You wouldn't like that at all, would you dear?"

The four-year-old paused mid-whine and sized-up the stranger before her. After a moment's consideration she released her mother's skirt, strode over, stuck out her chin, and stared at Gabrielle.

"I do not like when I am sick. Mother makes he eat Easter oil," she frowned.

"Neither do I, its dreadful stuff," agreed Gabrielle.

"You're very pretty," said the child.

"Not as pretty as you, Mademoiselle," Gabrielle flattered back.

Vanessa turned her attention to Erik. "But you are scary!" She blurt out.

Taken aback, Gabrielle stifled a small laugh at the girl's impertinence. Erik lifted a brow at Vanessa and crossed his long legs. "But I adore little girls—they are my favorite dish..." he began, but a sharp poke to the ribs stopped him.

"That's not nice, Vanessa, apologize to Monsieur DuPuis," demanded her father.

"I'm sorry," the girl mumbled while swishing her skirts back and forth.

"Apology accepted, Mademoiselle," Replied Erik, kindly. Punjabbing a child was never his style.

In an instant Vanessa Appleton was gone from the room and running down the hallway to pester the cook.

"Little girls—can't wait to have my own. If she's anything like I was we're in for some trials," Gabrielle remarked.

Erik's reply was a faint smile as he imagined handling two women with his wife's enthusiasm.

"Oh but little girls a re the apple of their daddy's eye," Murielle explained smiling at her husband. It is we mothers who must endure the tears and drama."

"So far, Erik-Jon is a very good little guy; rarely does he give us much trouble," Gabrielle replied proudly as she received a goblet of wine from a passing tray.

"Thank goodness it is women's work, eh gentleman?" remarked Vincenzo.

"Absolutely!" agreed George. Erik returned the Italian's musings with nothing more than a strained.

"And they call us the weaker sex," Murielle directed her remark to Gabrielle behind her hand as though it were a secret.

"Ha, let them suffer through twelve hours of labor!" Gabrielle announced, then, seeing the shocked faces around her, cleared her throat and quickly changed the subject to Mrs. Appleton's decorating expertise.

Erik stifled a knowing smile…he never tired of his wife's talent for crossing over the line of polite conversation.

"Erik mentioned that you have another daughter; Constance, if I recall correctly. Will she be joining us tonight?" Gabrielle inquired.

"Constance, why yes!" Murielle replied, obviously pleased that Gabrielle remembered her daughter's name. "She's gone off to fetch something from her room."

George tossed a knowing wink to their bachelor guest; "Fussing with some sort of bauble or another, I imagine. I do hope she doesn't tarry, I've quite an appetite and it's nearly time for supper," he added.

Talk of opera houses, the eccentricities of ego manic principles and god-awful auditions replaced domestic conversation. Finally, dinner was ready and all were invited to move to the dinning room.

Thought not a mansion, the Appleton's townhouse was gorged with tiffany lamps, statuettes, photos, wall-hangings, and all manner of knick-knacks suggesting the origins of the owner's penchant for travel. Such displays were a means of showing off new-found middle-class prosperity, status, and cultural interest.

The dining area featured paneled wood, candle-lit sconces and several heady floral arrangements. The star attraction was an ornately carved mahogany table which ran the length of the room. It was the sort a king might use.

Erik was admiring the room's grandiose style when his attentions were drawn to the sound of another soul slipping into the room. Standing before her mother and looking somewhat sheepish, was a handsomely clad Constance Appleton.

"There you are dear. Why did you not rejoin us in the parlour?" queried Murielle.

"Forgive my rudeness," replied Constance with a polite curtsey directed toward the dinner guests.

"As I was descending the stairs I could hear your footsteps approaching the dining room and thought it more sensible to join you here instead."

Constance Appleton's quiet manner and meek appearance were betrayed by her voice bright, clear voice.

"Very well, darling," her mother said giving the girl a quick peck on the cheek.

Introductions were made then everyone claimed their seats according to which table setting bore their name card. Naturally, Mr. Appleton graced the head of the table with Gabrielle to his right and Murielle to his left followed by Erik. Constance and Antonio were strategically placed on the opposing side of the table.

Discomfort adorned Gabrielle like a heavy brocade robe. She busied herself with the rigors of unfolding her napkin, placing it in her lap then smoothing the thing until it appeared well ironed. A glance at her husband's cool, confident demeanor calmed and encouraged her. She knew Erik's aloof attitude was a ploy to discourage conversation. Where Gabrielle certainly had the "gift of gab," he preferred pursuits of a more intimate nature such as music, reading, or sex.

Erik communicated his affection to his wife with a quick wink. He knew Vincenzo unnerved her and hoped she would not down too much wine to stifle her nerves...over-imbibing gave Gabrielle loose lips.

Amid a titter of light conversation, the tinkling of water and wine glasses being filled, the diners' tasted their first course and settled into a rhythm of polite conversation.

Vincenzo's voice broke through the din. He lifted his wine glass high and nodded to the Appleton's.

"Permit me to toast our gracious hosts who have offered their home and hospitality to us this fine evening."

Murielle feigned modesty with a flutter of her eyelashes while the rest joined the Italian in his genial toast.

Keeping his glass raised, he then turned toward the other guests.

_Slimy little bugger_, thought Gabrielle. Vincenzo's mannequin smile and steely eyes sear right through to her very soul.

"And a toast the talented Madame and Monsieur DuPuis…a couple so modern in talent and thought, one might consider them a gift from another place and time."

xXx

Please review!


	20. CH 20 Lamb Surprise

CH 20 Lamb Surprise

**CH 20 Lamb Surprise**

"…a gift from another place and time."

Gabrielle feared she might wet herself. A quick glance at Erik's tightly clenched jaw confirmed that she had heard Vincenzo correctly.

"Dear, are you well? You've gone pale as a ghost." All eyes focused on Gabrielle at Murielle's concerned tone.

Erik restrained his urge for violence by focusing on his wife's discomfort.

"Gabrielle chills easily. Shall I retrieve your wrap for you, my darling?" explaining why his usually vibrant wife had lost her color.

"Please, that would help, sweetheart," she replied, although Gabrielle doubted a flimsy square of fabric could relieve the chill brought on by Vincenzo's toast.

George motioned for Erik to remain seated. "Enjoy your dinner, Erik. Harvey will fetch it for you," he offered, and summoned the butler.

"We've had problems with the heating system's boiler…seems the flame fails just as the temperature turns downward," George explained apologetically to his guests.

Gabrielle recovered quickly from Vincenzo's verbal sucker-punch. "Monsieur Vincenzo, my husband and I thank you for the salute—we're deeply touched by your all too kind word, aren't we, Erik?"

Erik blinked twice at his wife before he faced the Italian. Wishing his vast repertoire of unusual skills extended to telepathy, he consulted his memory for a decisive conversation or revealing encounter that might have sparked Vincenzo's interest. Had there been one, did Vincenzo possess the sapiency appraise Gabrielle as a time-wanderer? And if so, why wouldn't the man simply ask her about it? Why the cloak and dagger; what _did_ he want?

The glint in his eyes betrayed his courteous smile, giving an emphatic, "no" to Gabrielle's question.

"Indeed, if only we were so clever as to know what the future holds, that faulty boiler would be replaced by something more efficient by now," Erik said, his voice deadly polite.

"And would be invaluable in the stock market, too, my friend," added George with a hearty chuckle.

_Why has he come to New York?_, Gabrielle wondered. To her, Vincenzo was a pox, not unlike the infectious disease brought across the ocean by the Europeans to the Indians.

Antonio stared at his fork as he tapped it lightly against the side of his plate; then, as if forming a conclusion, looked up at the DuPuis'. "I meant no insult, truly. I find myself intrigued by Madame's clever idioms. No women in my circle can boast such originality in vocabulary as Gabrielle. As a couple, your attitudes toward women's rights are most advanced —uncommon in the households of our time."

"Oh I heartily agree on your latter point," Constance quipped enthusiastically. "Gabrielle, I read your article in the _City_ _Woman Journal_ about the plight of women in dubious professions—how they are needier than they are wanton and deserve our assistance, not our admonitions. Don't' you agree, mother?"

Murielle pursed her lips and pondered how she ought to respond. While not particularly interested in societal cares— were they not better left to government officials or church leaders? —brushing off her intelligent daughter's concerns usually sent the young woman into a huffy retreat. Tonight, Murielle wished to avoid such histrionics.

"Certainly, dear; kindness is always the better option," Murielle acquiesced.

"Gabrielle wants to fund a refuge for reformed prostitutes and their children," Constance advised her parents.

"Ladies of the evening, Murielle, do not be crude, child!" her mother chided. The eighteen-year-old was secretly tickled at her mother's indignation.

George Appleton, having spent much of his life around theatre folks, understood the complex web of love, need and dark desires, yet he rarely shared the knowledge with Murielle and Constance. Women of low repute had their place in a community hell-bent on insulating wives and daughters in a nest of righteous purity. _Why rock the boat?_ he thought.

"Tending to orphans is always a worthy cause, dear Constance," he said, hoping to placate his idealistic daughter.

Gabrielle, still a bit rattled by Vincenzo's cryptic toast, did not have the stomach to engage in discussions on the evils of prostitution or of a man's debauched justification for screwing around on his family. When the dutiful Harvey interrupted conversation by bringing in her evening wrap, Gabrielle nearly fell over herself thanking him.

"I'm of the opinion that music and theatre make more fitting distractions for a community," Vincenzo said, nodding to his artistic counterparts.

"Here, here," George agreed. "Nothing soothes the spirit or riles the blood better than a well executed opera in my theatre."

"…And with considerable receipts!" added Antonio, earning a titter of laughter from the group.

While enjoying the last of his onion consume, the Italian wondered how far he could push the DuPuis' without making his intentions obvious to his genteel hosts. He plucked his napkin from his lap and blotted his mouth, clearing away any remnants of the soup before turning his attention to Erik.

"Monsieur DuPuis, I adore your operas; they are often quite racy—not bawdy like burlesque, mind you—but more _erotic_. Yet I wonder; have you adapted _La Femme_ for the censorious American audience?"

"Not in the least."

"We'd not want the morality police to shut us down, would we?" Vincenzo teased with a wink to the ladies.

Erik's anger flared at the audacity of Vincenzo's question. "Whose morals are in question here; those who attend or those who support my opera?" He asked, irked that this man of dubious reputation should deem _his_ material inappropriate for any audience acquainted with the work of Erik DuPuis.

"Certainly not I…but shouldn't one practice caution in light of Madame DuPuis' recent arrest? I daresay the papers would eat us alive."

Once more, Gabrielle found her mouth agape.

All eyes and ears focused on her. Erik's fists squeezed into tight balls beneath the table and he prayed for a chance to ring Vincenzo's bell. How could this man know about Gabrielle's incident with local authorities? Hell, how did the slimy bastard know _anything_? He would have to have a cozy chat with Vincenzo…soon.

Before Gabrielle could respond, Murielle's face lit up. She loved good dish and a woman embroiled in hot social causes was bound to get scorched along the way, wasn't she?

"Gabrielle? Arrested? Please dear, tell Antonio he is delusional."

It was a rare sight for Erik: his wife speechless. He shifted in his chair and made eye contact with the matron. "Dearest Murielle, Gabrielle is a woman of bold tendencies and often pushes the envelope when championing her causes. Weeks ago she stepped on a few prominent toes in an endeavor to gain audience with the mayor. It is now, as you say in this country, 'water beneath the bridge'." It was a difficult smile Erik wore. He fantasized about ripping Vincenzo's lungs out of his chest.

Gabrielle slugged back a half a glass of wine, cleared her throat and fiddled with the back of an earring. "Yes, I fear crusading for women's rights and being strong sometimes gets me into hot water. Thank heavens for my patient husband," she said with self-effacing grace.

"Controversy is only dreaded by the advocates of error," Erik replied. Gabrielle's quests could be inconvenient at times, but he was proud of her, fully supporting her pursuits.

Constance had been watching the line of conversation with rapt interest. "Benjamin Rush, is it not, Monsieur DuPuis?" She spoke up, recognizing the American physician's name from her studies on the Declaration of Independence.

"Indeed it is, Mademoiselle. You're very clever." Erik smiled approvingly at the young woman.

Bred for a placid upper-middle-class life, what Constance Appleton craved was intellectual stimulation. Other women her age bored her beyond tears with their silly simpering about boys, balls and baubles. Deep down, she knew she had been created for more than her mother's life. And here at her family dinner table was a woman she could admire, a woman she could emulate…

"What an exciting life you must lead!" she gushed. "Do you think, Gabrielle, I could be of help to your fallen ladies cause?"

"It is not easy, but if you really are interested—"

"I can collect donations for your house from the girls at my school."

While not prone to rudeness, Murielle felt she must make quick work of the exchange between the idealistic Madame DuPuis and her eldest daughter.

"Constance," she interrupted, you've no time for extra endeavors, girl, what with your studies, equestrian lessons, piano lessons, dancing lessons, your coming out mere months away…dear me. I'm sure she hasn't time to train a young girl how to entice men into changing laws."

Constance's smile quickly hardened into a grimace. "Mother and Father would rather have me enticing men to marry me. They forget I am far too intelligent for most of the ghastly beau they deem suitable for me."

"Constance!" Her mother was aghast.

Erik barely stifled a snort at the young woman's fiery honesty. He enjoyed seeing social norms challenged.

"Mind your manners, daughter; you know Mother and I have only your interest at heart," scolded her father.

"Sorry," the young woman mumbled, her eyes downcast.

"Persuading men on issues of a serious nature is difficult, especially for a lady. Our Madame DuPuis possesses that unique ability to entice and engage. Your youthful inexperience, daughter, hardly sets you in the same league; not to mention that Gabrielle has a husband who will catch her should she fall.

"You'd do well to set your sights on more attainable goals first, dearest," added Murielle.

Her balloon deflated, Constance shrank back into somber quietude. Gabrielle smiled at the girl reassuringly. "Constance, I've every confidence that you can accomplish whatever true goal you set upon. And please, our door is always open should you wish to talk."

Vincenzo, satisfied with the squall he had roused up over supper, switched his manipulations from the DuPuis' to the Appleton's daughter. Smart as Constance may be, the girl was no looker. An ambitious young businessman required an upper middle-class bride. That her father runs a theatre was an added bonus.

_Time to score points, _he thought_._

"Mademoiselle Appleton, I quite agree with your point; a stupid man is not a suitable companion for a woman with your keen intelligence." His tone was congenial; his countenance serious.

Constance brightened. She was flattered Antonio Vincenzo had noticed she was not a coquet. While her uncles enjoyed battling wits with her, most suitors did not. They had little use for a woman with thoughts of her own—pretty and malleable broodmares was the order of the day. This Italian man employed in her father's theater seemed different and interested in _her_.

"Why thank you, Mr. Appleton. How considerate of you to say so," said Constance. Her delighted reply and sparkling eyes told him he had piqued her interest and he continued to entertain his host's daughter with tales of his travels and of the theatre.

The arrival of the main course —a gorgeous roast lamb in fragrant mint sauce and garnished with an array of spring vegetables—caused a pause in conversation. Gabrielle had been famished when she arrived. After half an hour in Vincenzo's unsettling presence, she was now repulsed by the sight of the rich meal. Thankfully, as a woman, she could get away with picking at her plate.

Erik, however, could have risen up, strangled Vincenzo until his eyes popped from their sockets, sat back in his chair, and savored every morsel on his plate. For a slender man, his enthusiastic appetite did not manifest itself in form.

"Erik, please indulge me, what might we Americans find risqué about your opera?" Murielle said, re-opening an earlier can of worms.

He cut a piece of the lamb away from a rib bone, speared it with his fork, then paused and eyed Antonio warily. "I suspect Monsieur Vincenzo refers to costumes which brush the knees of the chorus girls and of my final scene where the tenor delights in the soprano's feminine attributes with an occasional brush of his fingers."

"Hardly something the vice squad would be interested in," she replied.

"I must concur. Rehearsals have revealed an enticing display of emotion and luxuriant music. Audiences will squawk on for months about _La Femme du Norde_, if I am a lucky man," said George, leaning forward with a grin and a swish of his wine glass. "I personally have seen more bawdy displays at the Ladies Auxiliary spring production of _The Sorcerer."_

"George that is simply _not_ the truth!" Murielle protested, irritated by his suggestion that she and her friends would be anything less than tasteful in their Ladies Auxiliary spring fundraisers.

Erik stifled a wry snort as he imagined how much more ghastly Gilbert and Sullivan sounded with a gaggle of society women and singer-wannabes like Madame Appleton, mangling the operetta.

Gabrielle alternated between sips of water and wine, a way of keeping her wits about her. At the mention of her husband's opera she perked up never missing an opportunity to praise his brilliance.

"Erik's work is truly amazing—more gorgeous music you'll never hear. Men who take their wives to the production may discover new romantic inspiration." Her face glowed whenever she reflected on the affect her husband's provocative score had had on her the first time she had heard it.

Color touched his cheeks. Acceptance was something Erik craved, yet praise made him nervous. A spark of hope quickly replaced his shy response. Perhaps when the two of them arrived home, he could take advantage of Gabrielle's memories. Their eyes locked, and the smile he gave his lovely wife was tinged with desire.

This time it was she who blushed.

Murielle felt compelled to steer their conversation to a more appropriate subject: ladies fashion.

"Gabrielle, are you not excited about opening night? I've been to the dressmaker uncountable times making design adjustments to my gown for the gala."

"With your taste in decorating, I can imagine you've chosen a stunning design for your opera gown, Murielle. I want details!" Gabrielle encouraged the older woman.

"It is a sumptuous concoction of bright green silk and tulle the color of newborn leaves; the bodice and hem are adorned with tiny pink apple blossoms fashioned from crystals. At my insistence, I urged the designer to add one of the new modest bustles to my creation."

"Well, I cannot wait to see it. Your gown sounds very au courant," Gabrielle replied.

"And at a considerable cost, I might add," grumbled her husband, garnering a chorus of nods, grunts and chuckles from the trio of men.

Antonio Vincenzo surveyed the scene before him. He had gained favor with the Appleton's and irked the DuPuis'—he was pleased with his evening.

Since discovering the score _for La Femme du Norde_ among his grandfather's papers, he had vowed revenge on Erik DuPuis. The deformed defrauder had won his exalted place in history by plagiarizing Signore Adriano Adolpho's finest work**.** For over one hundred years musical historians heaped praise on the Frenchman's visionary genius when all Adriano received was a brief mention about spiritless compositions and an untimely suicide—hardly a proper lineage for the proud Italian family

Physical weakness from Muscular Sclerosis and mental depression from DuPuis' success with music penned by his own hand had pushed the Italian composer to self-destruction. The suicide increased Madame Adolpho's grief, aging the woman beyond her years. Vincenzo's luck at finding employment in close proximity to Monsieur DuPuis was a monumental opportunity for his vengeful aspirations.

- ( ) –

_Notes: Vice squad and morality police were used frequently in 19__th__ century New York in reference to those involved in upholding the new Comstock laws._

_One telling point in distinguishing __multiple__ sclerosis from MD is that MS rarely occurs in young people. Age of onset tends to occur between 20 and 40. Those with __multiple__ sclerosis often suffer from attacks, which can temporarily impair movement and cause great pain. Movement capability may recover after attacks. This differs from the progressive deterioration of muscle that characterizes MD. _

_Though the diseases are different, both __multiple__ sclerosis and muscular dystrophy are alike in that neither is curable. Both diseases can be significantly devastating. More often, however, muscular dystrophy is linked to very early death, where severe forms of multiple sclerosis are rarer._


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